The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard
by Westron Wynde
Summary: A man allegedly mauled by a stuffed leopard in an exclusive club in the centre of London gives a young Sherlock Holmes another of his early cases - and a good deal more trouble than he bargained for! Sequel to Prestidigitator's Python! COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

* * *

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Prologue**

I run, because delay is foolhardy against such odds. I have taken desperate measures against ruthless men and in my folly have I underestimated my foe. I had not anticipated the other, the stalking horse set to catch the unwary. And so I must run, to find escape from this infernal establishment, and in my haste I err.

My footsteps echo along deserted corridors, beating out a sharp staccato rhythm on the polished wood floors. I hear them behind me, their blood lust raised, hunters keen on the scent. Their cries, like so many hounds, alert others and in full flight they chase.

I do not look back. Ahead lies the staircase, and would my burning lungs and aching legs permit, I shall be free of this place and out into the street where dark deeds are not concealed behind respectable walls and painted eyes bear silent witness to the crimes perpetrated at their feet. Lestrade should be there by now, but should my messenger fail, I know they would not dare to raise arms against me in so public a place. Not even the dullest witted of London policemen would ignore bloody murder committed in front of him.

I run, my hopes alive. Then, in front of me, a figure appears, a crony designed to arrest my flight. If I stop and fight, the others will be upon me in no time at all. My thoughts turn, I find an exit, an open doorway, and through it I run.

And here have I erred. This gymnasium, whose floor have I tortured my back and pained my knees in endless scrubbing, has only one exit, that through which I have come. Too late, I try to retrace my steps to make my escape. But then they are there, their leader at their helm, and I have nowhere to go but back.

"Well, now, Mr Holmes," says he advancing, swordstick in his hand. "Did you think to slip away so easily after casting such a slur on my honour? I have you, you scoundrel!"

"Better a scoundrel than a murderer!" I declare.

He stops in his tracks and regards me from beneath hooded lids. "You repeat your slander, sir. For the stain you have cast upon my good name, I demand satisfaction!"

This meets with a general roar of approval from the rest of the pack.

"You will have your day in court, never fear," say I.

"Oh, no, Mr Holmes, I demand it _now_. You forget where you are, sir. This is the Tankerville Club. Different rules apply here. We mete out our own brand of justice."

He goes to the racks of fencing weapons. His hand hovers over the foils, then a sickly smile comes to his features, and instead he takes up a sabre. Another is thrown to me and I catch it, feeling its weight slightly pull on my arm.

It has been some time since I have had handled a blade such as this and my technique, although ambitiously described as 'expert' in later years by my friend and biographer, had been lamentably neglected of late. Up against the second finest swordsman this side of the Alps, I would not place a bet on myself as emerging victorious from this bout.

"A duel, sir," says my opponent. "Let it be to first blood, and then I will expect an apology. If not…"

He strokes the blade of his weapon and tests the keenness of the tip on his thumb. What should have been a blunted edge produces a globule of blood that he sucks from his skin. As befits a military club, these are genuine weapons of war, not for created for sport. The nicks and gouges I notice in my own blade can only have come from its use on the battlefield.

"I do prefer the sabre," says he. "Truly, it is a man's weapon. I see you hold it with accustomed ease, Mr Holmes."

"I believe you will find me a greater challenge than your last adversary."

"Hah! But then he was not a gentleman. He was gutter scum, a rank, snivelling coward. And what of you, sir! A wolf in sheep's clothing if ever I saw one. Come to spy upon us, have you? But what happens in the Tankerville stays in the Tankerville, as you will soon discover!"

He raises the hilt to his face in the traditional form of salute before adopting the _en garde_ stance. I take a moment to discard my coat and waistcoat before returning the gesture. No matter that what we are doing has been banned some six-and-twenty years; as he has said, the members of the Tankerville Club make their own rules. That includes gambling on illegal bouts such as this, for behind him, I notice the others making wagers on the outcome. First blood, so he says, but I know he will accept nothing less than my demise.

Civilities over, he charges like a madman, swinging his blade in a deadly arc. I am forced immediately into retreat, so far back that I hit the far wall and dodge away just in time as his weapon hits the place I had been a second before. He feints, lunges and I parry his blow, only to find myself with his weight pressing down on my blade.

The sheer power of the man is terrifying. His eyes are wild, bloodshot and staring, and his mouth half-open in a feral snarl. We have forsaken elegance for brute force. He means to best me; it will mean my very life if he does.

Our knuckleguards have become locked, and only with supreme effort am I able to disengage and throw him off. He glares at me, his nostrils flaring. We circle like wary lions before he throws caution to the wind and charges. The hall fills with the sound of clashing steel before we part. His blade whistles past my ear and smashes to the floor. Had I been slower, he would have taken my head with it.

He recovers and slashes wildly. Again in retreat, I fall back, tripping over my own feet in my haste and sprawling on the floor. He attacks; I parry and somehow manage to evade the deadly sweep of his sabre. I leap up to find a lock of my hair still on the ground where I had fallen. That last blow was too close. Already my limitations are showing.

My shoulder aches and perspiration is running freely down my face. I have been too long out of practice. What such neglect could cost me does not bear thinking.

We perform our deadly dance across the hall, sometimes attacking, sometimes falling back, but always relentlessly heading towards the farthermost corner. I anticipate too late. The wall slams into my back and in my moment of hesitation there is a flash, my weapon is dashed away and I feel a sharp pain above my left eye. My opponent falls back, his sabre lowered and his eyes alight with triumph. Something warm wends its way over my eyelids and I wipe away the blood that threatens to spill down my face.

He has his victory. First blood has been drawn. I have lost.

His fellows cheer and offer their congratulations, but this is not over. He wants more. He raises the sabre so its tip is pressed against my windpipe.

"On your knees, you wretch," he hisses. "I want my apology, Mr Holmes."

"You may want it, but you will never get it!" I declare.

"You should not have meddled in my affairs, boy," says he. "No one crosses me and lives to tell of it."

"The police know. They have enough to arrest you and send you to the gallows."

He laughs mirthlessly. "Men of my calibre are not hanged like common criminals."

"And yet that is _exactly_ what you are. Men like you overestimate their importance."

His eyes widen a fraction. This is what he has been waiting for all along.

"Get out!" he yells over shoulder. "I have private matters to discuss with this blackguard."

The others look askance. They know the meaning of this command. As in the past, they obey. They file out, not looking back. They have no wish to be party to murder.

With the final member gone, his cronies close the door and one lounges up against it, fingering the pistol he keeps out of habit in his coat pocket. In the unlikely event of my winning, he will ensure that his master is avenged.

"Now," says my opponent. "Pick up your weapon."

I have no choice. I must comply.

My hopes rest on the fleetness of a child and my trust in the best of the professionals. Should they fail me, I know I will not leave this room alive.

* * *

_Good heavens! Whatever has that young Mr Holmes got himself into now? I think he might have bitten off slightly more than he can chew this time!_

_To find out how this situation came about, onwards to Chapter One!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	2. Chapter One

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter One**

Experience teaches us that curiosity is responsible for a great many of the ills that beset mankind.

In my own case, it had brought me to an undistinguished mortuary at one of the lesser London hospitals. The tiled chamber was heavy with the smell of old blood and fresh coffee, the former eminating from a sheeted corpse on a low table, the latter from the steaming cup held by the attending doctor. The scene had a touch of the macabre, but then so did the mystery that had brought me here on this late January afternoon in 1878.

"Mr Michael Harding," said Inspector Lestrade, his chin sunk low on his chest as he surveyed the covered remains. "Or at least what's left of him."

The police surgeon, an elderly man with thick spectacles, wild grey hair and twitchy mannerisms, made no attempt to offer us assistance in revealing the unfortunate gentleman's face. His assistant too, a dark-eyed moustachioed young man, sat on a stool by the washbasin, methodically chewing his way through a meal of liver and bacon from a metal specimen tray with the help of a scalpel. I assumed crockery was hard to come by in this quiet corner of the hospital, since no one would surely choose to drink their tea from a flat-bottomed glass flask had a cup been to hand.

Add to this a rather large black-and-tan dog, chewing on a bone in the corner as he watched us with wary eyes, and it was no wonder that my first doubts were starting to take root. I had been lured here with the promise of a case somewhat out of the ordinary, only to find myself in the close company of men unmoved enough by gruesome death to be put off their food and who improvised table settings from the surgical instruments they found at hand. I could only hope that the dog's meal had come from a reputable butcher and not from some unfortunate who had gone to his grave missing part of his leg.

Lestrade was somewhat more squeamish about the whole business, however, and had the decency urge the police surgeon, Dr Warwick, from his lethargy to uncover the late Mr Harding. He duly obliged and we stared down at the grossly mutilated corpse.

The last time I had the dubious pleasure of coming into contact with a dead body, it had been that of an elderly former trapeze artiste, who had fallen to his death after committing a series of murders at a theatre in Hoxton. The injuries had been severe enough to render the man almost unrecognisable. We had been spared the grim reproach that comes in the eyes of the newly-dead before someone has the good grace to close the eyelids on the world forever. We had been unable to identify the strains of agony in the withered lines of the face, produced in that last minute of impact. We had been able to cover him quickly and not have to witness the sight of broken bones that protruded through ripped skin or the line of shattered teeth behind the bleeding lips.

In this case, however, we were to be spared none of this. The late Michael Harding, a young man of about twenty, had met his end in full knowledge of the fate that awaited him. The eyes were still open, clouded now by death and locked in a skyward stare, as if in silent appeal to his maker for the swift release of his soul. The teeth were bared, the lips bloody and his left cheek bore a red smear where he had bled copiously from his mouth.

The face was terrible to behold, but worse was the throat, or rather what remained of it. Something had ripped across it with such savagery that head and body were attached by little more than skin and few stringy tendons. Blood vessels hung listlessly like party ribbons after rain. A section of the windpipe was missing, sliced through by something sharp enough to remove it in one blow. Whatever it was had also broken the spine, leaving its two severed ends sitting at a peculiar angle to each other.

Forcing my gaze to the bare torso and ignoring the incisions made during the post mortem examination, I saw it was marked all over by great scratches where something had torn and cut his flesh. The marks extended down both his arms, and ended in one large cut on the back of his right hand. Above, the livid flesh showed the mottling of bruising around the wrist, a state that was replicated on the other arm.

If I was to believe what Lestrade had told me, this unhappy man had met his end by being mauled to death by a leopard. That was a rare enough occurrence, but coupled with the fact that it had happened in a respectable club in the centre of London and the leopard in question had been deceased for some time, my interest had been naturally piqued. As I say, curiosity has much to answer for.

"Nasty, eh?" mused Lestrade. "You hear stories of people having their throats ripped out by wild animals, but I never thought to see it in Piccadilly."

Somewhere in the background, the assistant let out a loud belch. I felt my insides tighten and tried to stifle a rising wave of nausea.

"Oh, but that isn't what killed him," said the police surgeon lightly.

Lestrade stared at him aghast. "You mean he was walking about as right as rain with half his throat missing? What are you trying to tell me, Doctor? That he was careless enough to get himself run over by a horse and cart?"

"How _did _he die, Dr Warwick?" I asked.

The doctor regarded me quizzically. "And you are?"

"The Chief Constable's nephew," Lestrade said quickly before I had a chance to reply. "On his mother's brother's wife's sister's husband's side, twice removed."

I took it that the Inspector did not want this inquisitive fellow to know the real reason I was here. After having presented him with the answers to the Music Hall murders, for which I had since learnt from the _Daily Telegraph _that he had taken full credit, Lestrade had then approached me with the notion of my giving him some unofficial help from time to time in my role as consulting detective. I had agreed and he had wasted no time in informing me of his present difficulties.

Any misgivings I may have had about demeaning my skills in the arts of observation and deduction for the glorification of others had been brushed aside by the singular nature of the case and the fact that Lestrade had been generous enough to offer me some financial assistance when my need was great. I still had the remnants of the two pounds he had given me in my pocket, a good deal more than he could afford to be doling out to feckless young men with a penchant for living beyond their means.

I had resolved to pay him back, since the old saying that never a borrower or lender be is as true as it ever was. I was now obliged to help him and he would probably be going without a square meal for several nights. The situation was not satisfactory. I meant to return the favour with interest, when I was able, even if it meant begging money from my elder brother, a personal indignity I reserve for the direst of occasions. In the meantime, I had hopes that other avenues of financial advancement might present themselves before I had to resort to such measures.

With this in mind, I decided it was not my place to contradict the Inspector in public and so blithely assumed this tentative kinship with one of his superiors. I was not entirely sure that the relationship as he had described it would hold up to close scrutiny, so wisely did not give the police surgeon a chance to question me too deeply.

"The Chief Constable?" said Dr Warwick. "You wish to follow in his illustrious footsteps?"

"Something like that," said I. "Although I find your work much more interesting, Doctor, which is why I asked Inspector Lestrade if I could accompany him today. I hope I have not overly intruded."

The art of flattery is a skill to be cultivated, for it can produce the greatest results from the most unlikely of men. It is fair to say that Dr Warwick fairly blossomed under such praise. He rose up on his toes, straightened his glasses and his old eyes twinkled.

"Oh, I say," said he with delight. "No, it's no intrusion at all, young man. On the contrary, you are most welcome. We don't get many visitors down here. Well, well. Bless my soul. You must forgive the state we're in. We've had a busy day and only just had time to snatch our lunch. We aren't usually in such a mess, are we, Inspector?"

"The nature of Mr Harding's death?" I prompted.

"Ah, yes, well, you'll find this most interesting. To give it its full medical name, he died of a condition we call pneumothorax."

"You mean he had some sort of disease?" said Lestrade.

"No, Inspector, he suffered a penetrating chest injury prior to his death, what you might call a 'sucking chest wound', due to the nature of the sound it makes," explained Dr Warwick. "Air collected in his pleural cavity and caused his right lung to collapse. You see, normally, the pressure in the lungs is greater than that of the pleural cavity which surrounds them. If air enters that cavity, the pressure situation becomes reversed. As a result, the lung is unable to expand properly and collapses."

He indicated four marks on Harding's chest and pushed his little finger as far as it would go through the largest of these to demonstrate the depth of the wound. Lestrade blanched and turned away, retching into his handkerchief as he did so.

"This is the one that caused the problem," said he, wiping his finger on his already soiled apron. "I dare say he might have survived had someone not tried to help by covering the wound. Unfortunately for him, this had the result of trapping the air within the pleural cavity. With every breath he took, his heart and major blood vessels became compressed under the pressure and finally gave out."

"How can you be sure this caused his death?" I asked. "His other injuries are severe."

"Because his lips are blue. Had his throat been intact, I feel sure you would have seen the distension of the jugular veins which is further evidence of the condition. Also, there was very little blood either around the body or on his clothes, which, had his throat been attacked first, would have resulted in extensive exsanguination."

"What caused the wound to the chest?"

"Something long, sharp and pointed."

"Teeth," offered the assistant. "Big ones."

"Ah, yes," said Dr Warwick tolerantly. "The leopard theory. We examined the beast in question at your request, Inspector, and I am happy to confirm that it is quite dead. A fine example of the taxidermist's art, I must say, although it does appear to have a moth problem, which needs immediate attention."

I glanced at a sheepish Lestrade. "It was the Chief Superintendent's suggestion," he said. "Personally, I don't believe a word of it."

"Here is it," said the doctor, removing the sheet from a mound on the opposite table. "Quite magnificent, isn't he?"

In life, I could imagine that the beast had been a sight to behold; in death, it was rather less so. Balding, faded yellow fur, peppered with a scattering of spots, had been stretched over a frame and overstuffed to the point of distortion. The front limbs had been positioned into an attitude of attack and the lips pulled back into a permanent snarl, revealing four great fangs now daubed with the blood of its alleged victim. I tested my finger against the one said to caused the fatal wound, only to have Lestrade catch my arm and pull my hand away.

"Careful, he might bite," said he, in a manner that was only half joking. "He's still our chief suspect, remember."

"Lestrade, this leopard is long dead. It could give me mange, but nothing more."

"All the same," said Dr Warwick sagely, "there's nothing wrong with being cautious. It's why I brought Basil with me today." He gestured to the dog. "Just in case," he said with a knowing wink. "Dogs know about these things. There's stranger things in heaven and hell, isn't that right, Lestrade? Look at that business last year with the unicorn man."

Listening to the Inspector and Dr Warwick, it was as though the age of enlightenment had never happened. Those men of science who had fought to free the modern mind of medieval superstition must have been turning in their graves to hear this conversation.

In this spirit, I attempted to bring the discussion back to a more rational footing.

"The unicorn man?" I inquired sardonically. "I must have missed that case."

Lestrade did not fail to miss the tone of irony I had injected into my voice. "You would have had to have been there to understand. A man was found on the Thames foreshore by London Bridge by a couple of kids. He had a long, twisted horn sticking out of his chest and, on account of that, the papers called him 'The Unicorn Man'."

"At your suggestion, as I recall," said the doctor with some amusement.

A high colour rose to the Inspector's cheeks. "I was misquoted. I was still in uniform at the time and this reporter fellow asked me how the man had died, so I jokingly told him that he'd been run through." He hesitated. "I told him a unicorn had done it. The Chief Super wasn't too pleased when he read the papers the next morning. It took me another year to get my promotion to Inspector after that fiasco."

"No wonder," said I. "Was this man's throat also savaged?"

"Now I come to think of it, I believe it was," said the doctor. "I can consult my notes on the case if it would be of any use to you."

"It would," I confirmed. "Could he too have died from pneumothorax?"

"Hard to say. There was extensive damage to the chest on account of the impalement." He gazed at me expectantly. "Was there anything else?"

"May I see Mr Harding's clothes?"

The assistant dragged himself away from his dinner and returned with a bundle that he dumped onto a table. I sorted through the blood-stained items until I found the man's shirt. Rips and tears corresponded with similar marks on the body, except there was something curious about them. Of the four parallel tears, one was clean cut in the manner of a slice, while the other three were ragged as though the instrument that had inflicted the wounds had been blunted. Red stains had gathered around the straightest of the four, suggesting that that at least had been done while Harding was still alive.

To the doctor's interest, I checked my findings on the body itself, where again I found that pattern of one slice and three gouges. He even offered me his magnifying glass to better observe the wounds, which he then graciously suggested I keep. Imagining himself to be in the presence of the Chief Constable's nephew as he did, presumably he was hoping that a gift might oil the wheels of favour.

I finished my examination and pocketed the glass. Mr Harding had been young, in good health and had died in the most agonising manner. I could bear to look upon his eyes no longer. With the doctor's permission, I closed the lids over his unfocused pupils, and pulled the sheet back over his head.

"You will release the body to the family now?" I asked.

"He has none," said Lestrade. "As far as we can tell, he was alone in the world."

"Then who gave permission for the post mortem?"

"The Chief Superintendent. He said it was necessary."

"I don't disagree with him. Well, good afternoon, Dr Warwick. Thank you for your time."

I tried not to flinch when I shook his outstretched hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," said he. "I trust you won't mention our somewhat unprofessional appearance this afternoon to your uncle? We don't usually take our meals down here, you understand."

"Indeed no," I reassured him. "In fact, he disapproves of my being here, so if you'll keep my visit between ourselves, I'd be grateful."

With the pleasantries over, I took myself outside and cleared my lungs of the oppressive odour of the place while I waited for Lestrade. When he did finally join me, his expression told me that he knew what was coming.

"This case is something in the manner of you redeeming yourself in your superior's eyes, isn't it, Inspector?" I said accusingly.

He nodded glumly. "I'm afraid so, Mr Holmes. Commissioner James wants this talk of supernatural goings-on nipped in the bud and he's putting pressure on the Chief Superintendent for results, fast like. What with the unicorn thing last year and the ghost slaying six months before that, he says he wants this case wrapped up quickly before the people start getting restless."

"What ghost slaying?"

"A ghost threw a man out of a third floor window over in Maida Vale. He landed on the spiked railings below and was killed outright. Well, that's what they say anyhow."

"Another chest injury?"

Lestrade glanced up at me. "You think there's a connection?"

"Three people dead, all with similar injuries, killed by culprits far beyond the reach of the law? I would say something was rotten in the state of Denmark, wouldn't you, Lestrade?"

"Don't talk to me about Denmark," he grunted. "I've enough trouble on these shores."

I let it pass. "So why have you been given the case? Surely one of the more experienced Inspectors would have been a better choice."

His manner changed abruptly. "You don't get promotion to Inspector if you aren't good, Mr Holmes," said he indignantly. "I was the best of the bunch and I'd earned it, even with that misunderstanding about the unicorn. It stuck in the old man's craw to have to give it to me, and he was put out I did so well with that Hoxton Hippodrome business."

"_You_ did?"

"We did," he conceded with a shrug. "Truth is, he's looking for a good reason to give me the heave-ho and he hopes this business will do it. Couldn't come at a worse time, either, what with the missus expecting her third next month."

I already felt bad about taking the man's money to clear my debts. Knowing his family situation only deepened my feelings of guilt. I delved into my pocket and held out the remaining pound note to him.

"Lestrade, take it back. I'll manage. You clearly need it more than I do."

He refused it in the strongest terms. "No, sir. We agreed it was a loan. Besides, I consider it an investment. I can't afford to lose my job because some fool has had a run-in with a stuffed leopard. A couple of quid is well worth it, to get your insight on this one."

"Very well," said I. "What can you tell me about this Michael Harding, aside from the fact that he is an orphan, did not smoke and worked as a steward in the club where he died?"

Lestrade blinked. "However did you know that, Mr Holmes?"

"His teeth were excellent and showed no staining of tobacco. Amongst his things, I found a pair of white gloves, such as are usually worn as part of a steward's uniform. The waistcoat too, in black ribbed satin was more than he could ordinarily afford, therefore it must have formed part of his working clothes. Where else should be wearing such attire but in his place of employment?"

"Well, you are quite right. Harding was a junior steward at the Tankerville Club. That's where he was found early this morning, just as you saw him, laid out in the Trophy Room with that leopard lying at his side, and the both of them covered in blood."

"The Tankerville? I'm not familiar with it."

"It has a large membership. Applicants wishing to join have to be military men, serving or retired, who take an active interest in the hunting of big game. In order to be considered, prospective members have to submit one of their prize pieces to the club's collection."

"The leopard, I take it, was one of these trophies?"

"Their pride and joy, given to them by some Major or other. They want it back too."

"They aren't concerned by its more murderous tendencies?"

"You may laugh," said Lestrade in all earnestness, "but there's some people take all this talk of the dead coming back to life very seriously."

"What do the members of the Tankerville say?"

"Misadventure. One of them said it must have fallen on Harding when he was cleaning it. To be honest, Mr Holmes, they clammed up as soon as they saw me. Them and the staff. I'm sure something fishy is going on there, but what it is for the life of me I can't guess."

"And this is where I come in."

"Exactly. I've persuaded the Head of the Club's Committee to take you on as a member of the staff. I told him it would be in his best interests to agree, otherwise he'd have a lot of coppers in their hobnail boots stomping all over his precious parquet flooring. He's promised to keep it a secret from the other club members."

I noted Lestrade had made these arrangements before consulting me. He must have been sure of his powers of persuasion.

"You see," he went on, "I don't think Harding was the intended victim. He was insignificant, a nobody. What we have here is a warning meant for someone else."

I shook my head at this version of events.

"Then what's your theory, Mr Holmes?" he asked.

"I believe Michael Harding was tortured to death. The bruises on his wrists indicate that he was held fast while this was done to him. When they had what they wanted, his chest wound was covered and the air trapped within, effectively killing him. Scratches were applied to the body to conceal the damage caused by his ordeal and the throat wound inflicted to give the death a touch of the bizarre, in keeping with the thinking of a murderer who would have us believe that spirits and mythical creatures are responsible for his crimes. That Harding was left at the Tankerville Club _is_ significant. Either the murderer is confident he will escape justice or he no longer cares about capture. The Tankerville is clearly where we must concentrate our efforts. Therefore, I am willing to accept your proposal, however unappealing the notion of domestic service might be."

Throughout this explanation, Lestrade's jaw had been dropping ever lower until he was positively gaping with sheer horror.

"Are you sure about this?" said he. "If you're right, that's an abomination."

"Murder is, Inspector. That is why it carries the harshest penalty the law can devise."

"Forget the whole idea, Mr Holmes," said he firmly. "It's too dangerous. I don't want what happened to Harding happening to you. I don't need your death on my conscience."

"I will only be in danger should I discover what it was that Harding knew. Take heart, Lestrade. It may have nothing to do with the Tankerville after all. In which case, we'll have to find another way to ensure your continued tenure at Scotland Yard!"

* * *

_Ooh-er, I've got a really bad feeling about this. Don't you know curiosity killed the cat, Mr Holmes – look at what happened to that leopard!_

_We'll have to find out how he gets on in Chapter Two!_


	3. Chapter Two

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Two**

"Do you hunt, Mr Holmes?"

The question, posed by Field Marshall Sir Francis Ffarly-Finch, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army, now retired to civilian life and loathing every minute of it, lacked any real enthusiasm. On appearances alone, I had been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

My answer duly confirmed his theories.

"The odd duck," I replied.

Odd was the right word for it. The last time had been some years previously at Victor Trevor's father's estate of Donnithorpe in Norfolk. The duck shooting would have been excellent, if there had been any ducks to shoot. A miserable day spent squelching around in boggy ground and crouching in the shallows had resulted in what even the most optimistic hunter would call a poor show for our efforts. Even the cook had looked askance at our offering.

Not that the Field Marshall was likely to be impressed in either case. His thoughts were on much larger game than mallards.

"Duck, ah, yes," he mused, as though anything smaller than a tiger had escaped his notice. "The grouse was rather good last season. Did you…?"

Again, a decided lack of energy accompanied the inquiry, as polite as it was. What could I say? To find red grouse in the centre of London would be on a par with finding a leopard in Piccadilly, and live one at that. The Glorious Twelfth, as the grouse hunters called it, had passed me by without causing so much as a ripple in the daily round of study and quarrels with my landlady over the rent. The best I had been able to muster was a pigeon and that only because it had chosen to expire on my window sill.

"No," I replied, determined to keep some face in the matter. "My work keeps me in London."

"Ah, yes, your work."

He spoke as though he knew what he was talking about, although clearly he had little perception of what it was that a consulting detective actually did. Granted, my role today was rather more than merely 'consulting'. I was having to throw myself more vigorously into the case than I would have preferred. Still, needs must when the rent is owing and the last good meal a distant memory.

"You work with the police?"

He was fishing for answers and it was obvious that I was going to have to enlighten him.

"In an unofficial capacity, Field Marshall. You understand that a man died here in the early hours of the morning."

"Only one of the junior stewards."

I had taken a dislike to the gentleman the minute I had entered the room. Comments like this only made my antipathy deepen even more so.

"A man, nevertheless," I reiterated. "What can you tell me about him?"

It was my turn to be unenthusiastic in my inquiries. That I was having this conversation at all was an absurd formality. Questioning the titular Head of the Tankerville Club's governing board about the staff was akin to asking Her Majesty for an insight in the character of the coalman's boy.

It did not take a genius to deduce that he had been chosen for the post most likely because he was the most senior ranking officer in the establishment. If his interest in the administrative side of the role was slight, then his placing as a respectable official representative of the Club was inspired. Given half a chance, he could probably bore for England on the subject that was closest to his heart.

"Oh, he was quiet and able in his duties," he said absently. "I had no complaints from the other members."

If he had, then the unfortunate fellow might have been spared his grisly end. All it would have taken was one disgruntled member to get a steward dismissed.

"Hardy, I think his name was," he went on distractedly. "I knew a Hardy once, out in India. Strange sort of chap. Insisted on wearing a bowler hat to breakfast."

"The man who died here was called Michael Harding," I said, dragging his attention back to the matter at hand. "How long had he been employed at the club?"

"Not long. A month or two, I should say."

"And who was responsible for his appointment?"

"That would have been Brigadier Burnley."

"Would have been?" I queried.

"Dead, poor chap. Beri beri finally carried him off. Couple of weeks ago it was. Fine officer, though he couldn't shoot a hole through a ladder at anything over 10 yards."

I wondered in passing how such a man had made into the army, let alone the Tankerville. Either he was fond of facing his enemy down and waiting until he saw the whites of their eyes, as the saying has it, or he had had someone to do the shooting for him.

"Who is handling appointments now?" I asked.

"Well, anyone really, until we can find someone willing to take on the role."

"So no one will question your hiring me?"

"No," he said vaguely, which made me think it was more than likely that a few eyebrows were going to be raised. So much for my quietly slipping in unnoticed.

"Back to Mr Harding," said I, "what did you make of the manner of his death?"

The Field Marshall shrugged. "An accident. These things happen."

I let it pass for the time being. "And the marks on the body?"

This did give him pause. "He was attacked in the street. Seen it happen many times. Mortally wounded, he staggered into the club, made his way upstairs and died."

He either thought I was lacking in intelligence or he sincerely believed what he had just said. I had seen the body. The late Michael Harding would have been incapable of staggering anywhere with half his throat missing and his head attached to his body by the merest sliver of skin and sinew.

Either way, it was time to let the Field Marshall know exactly where we stood.

"With all due respect, sir," I began, adding that touch of supercilious distain that I generally reserve for those who regard bloody murder as a mere inconvenience to the smooth running of their lives; "you would do well to take this man's death a little more seriously. Scotland Yard have good reason to suspect a member of the Tankerville Club as being responsible for the crime, in which case, sir, you are shielding a murderer."

Finally, I got a response. Field Marshall Sir Francis Ffarly-Finch sat up, straight-backed in his chair, and fixed me with an unfriendly eye. The languid demeanour had been shuffled aside and now I was seeing the military man who had cowed his junior officers into submission both on and off the battlefield. All the same, it was my turn to be unimpressed.

"You listen to me, young man," said he sternly. "The members of the Tankerville are above reproach. It is unthinkable, nay, impossible that one of them could have committed such a deed."

"You allow then that it was murder?"

"By person or persons unknown," he conceded.

"It is the unknown factor that concerns Inspector Lestrade."

I mentioned his name as a way of establishing my credentials and reminding the Field Marshall why I was here. Unable to gain ground through official channels, Lestrade had had to resort – and I use the word advisedly, because clearly it gave him no joy to have to do so – to asking me, a relative outsider, to take a position at the club and ferret out the truth.

He had balked at the notion after our earlier visit to the mortuary, when I had put forward my theory about Harding's death, but by then I was too intrigued, perhaps too incautious in my youthful enthusiasm to get to the bottom of the case. We had parted, him with misgivings, me with purpose, and had reconvened an hour later before I entered the club in my lowly capacity.

Lestrade thought me an unknown, but that was not entirely the truth. Not that I had caused any great ripples on the mire of criminality that runs through the heart of the city at that time, but my name to certain people would be more familiar.

When one has a elder brother carving a career doing who knew what in some mysterious capacity for an equally mysterious government department, word starts to get around about a younger sibling with a good head on his shoulders and a memorable name to go with it. Mr Holmes was unremarkable enough, but Sherlock would never do. All it needed was one passing acquaintance and my identity would be known faster than you could say John Peel.

For that reason, I had affected a disguise, one that was workable and bearable should my tenure at the club last some time. My hair I had greased down and parted in the middle, giving me the appearance of some unctuous office clerk. A cheap tweed suit and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses completed this pretence.

I would have preferred whiskers to add a louche touch to my assumed persona, but since my duties would involve my working with people at close quarters, false beards and moustaches would not failed to be noticed. Since I could not grow my own in so short a time – even I have my limitations – bare-faced it would have to be, in the hope that no one would mark that vague resemblance that siblings might share around the eyes, when in all other respects they are quite dissimilar.

I had beheld this strange creature in the mirror with his drooping shoulders and down-turned mouth, and a name had immediately sprung to mind. Sherlock, to my regret, no longer suited. If it is true that one grows into a name, then by discarding mine, however temporarily, I was also eschewing my former persona. He would have to live in my mind for the time being, and I would miss him and his confident air as he went strolling around the city with chemical burns on his fingers, a superior expression on his face and no money in his pockets. Instead I was dull, unassuming, inoffensive Henry Holmes.

I despised the fellow already.

He had one advantage over his more ostentatious counterpart, however: his invisibility. I walked past Lestrade three times without him realising who I was. He had been taken aback when I had revealed who I was, and he confessed that he had mistaken me for an idler who he thought was up to no good.

He had given me my final instructions – who I should see as to my appointment, another warning to be careful and not take any risks – and we went our separate ways, each to pursue our own inquiries. Should I have any information, I was to leave a note at a little tobacconist's shop in Jermyn Street. According to Lestrade, he had an understanding with the owner which involved me asking for James's Special Judicial Mixture and then leaving empty-handed.

It sounded a rather harum scarum arrangement to me, but Lestrade assured me it had worked well enough in the past. How many times, I had asked him, to which he had replied that this was the first. His confidence in the scheme, it transpired, owed much to the fact that the owner of the shop had a few minor skeletons in the closet which the Inspector was prepared overlook in return for a little co-operation.

I had my doubts. If the shopkeeper was that biddable, I could see my notes going astray to any character with enough coins to buy his complicity. Until I thought of a better arrangement, however, this would have to suffice.

With that, he had left, wishing me luck and expressing the sincere expectation that he would hear from me soon with news. For myself, I hoped to have left this establishment sooner than that. My last foray into the world of crime and murder had at least still allowed me to hold my head up high; the life of a music-hall entertainer had not been much, but no one had ever expected me to wait hand and foot on the other members.

It had also paid better: three shillings a week would not go far with my expenses. The only positive aspect of the position was that I would be able to live on the premises and with meals provided. On the down side, it meant I was likely not to get much rest, as readily available staff members are liable to be called upon at all hours.

This, then, was the reason I was sat in the presence of an elderly, be-whiskered Field Marshall in a room bulging with animal skins, fox heads, stuffed birds and an improbably large plaster pike mounted in a case above the gentleman's head. If his attitude was typical of the other members of the club, I could see why Lestrade had despaired. The man was not trying to be evasive; he was genuinely indifferent.

If I was to learn anything about Harding's death, it would not be from Ffarly-Finch. I hoped for Lestrade's sake, and in the interests of justice for the murdered man, that I would be able to make more progress than this. Time would tell.

For now, however, the Field Marshall had lost interest in me. Something was on his mind and from the way his gaze kept returning to his tantalus, I suspected he was yearning for my absence so he could indulge in private.

"You'll be discreet?" he wanted to know.

"Naturally. You'll keep the reason for my presence to yourself?"

"By all means. Don't want to upset the members."

It was a strange world where grisly death could pass unremarked, but a spy in the ranks would be seen as a cause for alarm.

"Have you been employed in service before?" he asked, somewhat anxiously to my mind.

"No," I admitted. "But I am familiar with the duties and not afraid of hard work."

That at least was true. I have always maintained that for a disguise to be effective, one must immerse oneself in the role in its entirety. Waiting at table and fetching drinks like a willing puppy with his master's slippers was the sort of thing Henry Holmes had been doing his whole life. I could hear proud Sherlock whispering in my ear about the indignity of it all, but if he wanted answers to this mystery, it was a situation he was going to have to accept. I put him firmly back in his box and resigned myself to my lot.

This seemed to satisfy the Field Marshall, who rang the bell and indicated that our interview was at an end with a vague gesture and some even vaguer mutterings about the kitchen staff taking care of me. In a short space of time, a steward appeared and I was sent on my way.

Outside, the fellow took my measure and eyed me with dislike. "New boy, eh?" said he.

"Holmes is the name. Henry Holmes."

"James Campbell," said he in return. "You know anything about cooking?"

This was not quite the introduction to my assumed life that I had expected. I had anticipated wariness, but not the open hostility that Campbell was displaying. If the rest of the staff viewed my appointment with equal resentment, then my time here was going to be arduous.

As it was, this dark-haired, sullen eyed steward was waiting for an answer.

"I'm afraid not," I answered truthfully, since I did not consider the ability to boil water and burn a hole in the bottom of the pan qualified me as a chef.

He swore. "That's all we need," said he. "Another night of Mr Warboys and his boiled mutton."

"Mr Warboys is the cook?"

"Cook's husband. Mrs Warboys has the runs, _again_."

Clearly, the meals were best avoided. I had adventure enough without chancing my health.

"Well," said he, sniffing with irritation. "I'd better introduce you to the others. You're not one of these good-for-nothing layabouts, are you, Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head.

"Good. Because they work you to death here."

Considering the fate of the last holder of the position I was filling, I hoped that statement would not prove to be prophetic.

* * *

_Kitchens from hell – boiled mutton with salmonella on the side. Dinner at the Tankerville anyone?_

_Let's see how young Mr Holmes fares below stairs in Chapter Three!_


	4. Chapter Three

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Three**

I was led by my ungracious guide past dark-panelled rooms that murmured to the sounds of unseen occupants and on down the servants' stairs, which let out into a courtyard at the rear of the building.

In the previous century, this had been the mews serving the houses that faced the street. Now it was the service wing, although several loose-boxes had been retained for use by those members who wished for safe stabling for their horses. One was occupied and the curious brown eyes of a bay gelding watched our progress across the yard to a sizeable building with a dilapidated roof and smoking chimney.

From now on, Campbell told me, this unimpressive structure would be the focus of my life when I was not on duty. I was not to pass through the Tankerville's main doors again, that being a privilege reserved for members only. If I had reason to leave the club's premises, it would be through the gate that led out into the alley connecting with the wider world. So began my new life as one of the invisible multitude.

The inhabitants of the servants' hall proved to be as wretched as their surroundings. Campbell made the perfunctory introductions and then left to return to his duties. Meanwhile, I was stranded in the middle of the room, to be studied and scrutinised like a prize heifer at market.

There were five of them, gathered around a long table so heavily scrubbed that the wood had been bleached white. A sixth man, who had been mentioned in passing as the husband of the absent cook, Mrs Warboys, stood by the fire, a wooden spoon in one hand and perspiration pouring down his already greasy face. Bad enough that globules of sweat were dripping from his nose into the bubbling pot that hung from the spit; aping the finest tradition of culinary practice, several times in my sight did he dip his spoon into the pot, take a sip of the liquid and then spit the contents of his mouth back into the boiling mass. Once again, I resolved to take my meals anywhere than here.

Apart from being the impromptu chef for the evening, the nature of his role was harder to define. As he explained it, he did anything that needed doing. So far, he had had a busy day. He had extracted a pigeon from the guttering on the roof and had then had his hands down the lavatory for most of the afternoon, clearing a blockage. I hoped he had remembered to wash his hands before starting on the evening meal. More likely, he had simply wiped them on his apron, already dappled with indeterminable stains, the origin of which did not bear close investigation. I tried not to grimace too much when I saw him pick up a handful of salt and throw it into the water.

Amongst the others, the most senior, the head steward, introduced to me as Mr George Fraiser, was a grey-haired man in his early fifties with a broad Yorkshire accent and the critical air of a retired sergeant major. I was not surprised when he told me that he expected civility, promptness and attention to personal grooming at all times. Slovenliness would not be tolerated. Lateness would incur a financial penalty, as would a myriad of other indiscretions that I had never considered warranted censure before.

Cursing, swearing, nodding, smiling, picking one's teeth and picking one's nose were all featured on the proscribed list of offences. Sneezing alone was punishable by the docking of twopence from the culprit's wages. Scratching any part of one's head whilst on duty meant a lesser fine of a penny; scratching any other part of one's anatomy, however, bore the heavier penalty of a shilling. Coughing was to be avoided at all costs. Should the need arise, the cough must be smothered. If one choked in the process, then a quiet corner was to be found in which to expire, least it become a nuisance to the members. In that last requirement, I had thought he was speaking in jest, although his countenance never wavered from anything other than deadly serious.

I knew also that I was due for a rough time when he derided my overall appearance as being 'soft'. Hard work, I was told, would toughen me up. A decent meal would help too. He proposed that I start this new regime by eating with him and the others at the table. I had to accept. Whether I was brave enough to accept the offer of food was another matter.

Sit I did, however, and found myself opposite two unappetising specimens by the name of Horace and Maurice Salisbury. Even without the pulsating sores on their faces, I would have felt uneasy in their presence. Being twins, they shared the same fair hair, pale skins and watery blue eyes, as well as matching expressions that could only be described as gormless. I had the distinct impression that they were the sort who could blithely dispense arsenic in place of sugar and not notice the difference until bodies were cluttering up the dining room.

Clearly someone else had come to the same conclusion and had assigned them tasks where their potential for damage was limited. They cleaned, they washed dishes and they helped Mrs Warboys in the kitchen, anything that did not involve them coming into direct contact with the members. Indirectly, I had to wonder.

As it was, Maurice was fingering a large weeping boil on his neck. Whatever it was he extracted from it took up a great deal of his attention in a detailed examination until he lost interest and wiped his fingers clean on the table surface. Then he passed me a plate on which his brother had placed two thick-cut pieces of bread and a slice of meat.

I eyed this offering dubiously.

"Cold mutton, from yesterday," explained the fellow at my elbow. "There'll not be much else tonight, what with the upset at the club, so you'd better make the most of it, Mr Holmes."

Nearer to my own age, John Jeffreys, a junior steward like myself, was dapper, impeccable in his manners and decidedly disagreeable. That he curried favour with Mr Fraiser to win the covet prize of favourite was obvious. Every schoolboy is familiar with the type, the one who always brings in an apple for the teacher, whose homework is always on time and who always knows the right answer. In Jeffrey's case, his shirt was starched to perfection, his tie a work of art and his black satin waistcoat bore not a speck of dirt. Compared to everyone else, he looked as though his clothes were new on that morning.

As an introduction to the staff pecking order at the Tankerville, I was not insensible to the fact that my position was just above that of the Salisbury twins. Above me, I was unsure whether second favourite was Campbell or a quiet, gaunt man of seven-and-twenty, introduced to me as Samuel Finsbury. He had suffered smallpox as a child and the scars were still visible on his sunken cheeks. He spoke not at all, although I was aware that his intense, penetrating gaze never seemed to leave me for a second. He sat, stared and smoked, distant from the world around him.

It was almost intimidating, but not as much as the mound of bread and mutton on the plate before me.

If this was what they thought constituted an evening meal, I could see why they were anxious that I should make the most of it. Rancid fat had been smeared on the bread, itself bearing that slightly coarse texture that comes with staleness. The meat too had a dull, greenish tinge about it, making me think that if it had been prepared yesterday, then it had already been several days old.

Only a fool or a starving man would consider eating it. I was neither, but with all eyes on me, I had no choice. Henry Holmes would eat it and be glad of it. Sherlock Holmes would suffer the consequences later.

It was not as bad as I had expected. The bread was thick enough to disguise the toughness of the meat, although the taste was somewhat unexpected, being unlike any mutton I had ever eaten before. It was also heavily salted, which had me reaching for a drink of water to ease the rawness in my throat.

I managed several mouthfuls before I was able to set my burden down. It was enough. I had passed the test. Mr Fraiser and the others were satisfied. Now the questioning could begin.

I had my story ready. I was a former factory worker from Croydon, laid off by the owner to save on wages. I had no kith or kin, no one to object to my coming to London in search of employment. This was a start, I told them. I hoped in time to improve my prospects, a remark which amused them greatly. At least I was convincing. It also meant that I was quickly discounted as a threat to the ordered running of life at the club. Henry Holmes, a mean, insignificant worm of a man, was here to work, not make trouble, and soon enough the conversation flowed easily around me.

"I still say as how it lacks respect," opined Warboys. "That young Harding not dead a day and already they've found someone to replace him. No disrespect to you, Mr Holmes. I'm sure you're a decent enough fellow an' all, but it's not right."

"None taken," I murmured. "Who was he?"

"Your predecessor, Michael Harding," grunted Fraiser. "You're only here because o'dead men's boots, lad."

"Died in the night he did," said Horace Salisbury in his slow, considered manner.

"Washed up his blood this morning we did," said his brother. "Still can't get them stains off the floor."

"An accident?" I inquired.

The atmosphere around the table cooled considerably. "Some say that," said Fraiser stiffly. "We had the police here this morning and they didn't know what to make of it. Told the man in charge what we could but it wasn't much. Strange lad was that Harding. Too thoughtful, if you know what I mean."

"He were crafty, if you ask me," said Warboys. "I always thought he were up to something. Had some queer ideas too."

"He wouldn't eat no meat," said Maurice Salisbury, giggling as he fingered another of his oozing pimples. "And no fish neither."

"Lived on bread and cheese he did," said Horace Salisbury with a vacant grin. "That's what killed him, we reckon. His insides were clogged up with all that bread."

"He was a vegetarian," explained Jeffreys helpfully. "He said it was against his conscience to eat meat."

"So he said," muttered Warboys. "You ask me, he was a picky beggar. Wouldn't eat my wife's cooking nor sit down at table with us. Thought he was better than us, I dare say."

"Mr Warboys, hold your tongue," said Fraiser sharply. "The man is dead. Leave him be."

"Don't change what he was, though, Mr Fraiser. If you want my opinion about it, he upset someone with those funny ideas of his and they went an' killed him."

"Killed him?" I asked in feigned astonishment. "What, here at the Tankerville?"

Fraiser sighed. "Well, you might as well know, lad. He was found in the Trophy Room with his throat ripped out and a dead leopard at his side."

"It was that leopard that did it," said Maurice Salisbury in wide-eyed sincerity. "I ain't never liked the look of it. I always knew it weren't really dead, just pretending like."

"Now that's just silly talk," said Jeffreys. "The only life in those stuffed animals is the moths and the maggots. Isn't that right, Mr Fraiser?"

"I tell you," asserted Warboys, "he upset someone. Said something they didn't like and they did for him. That business with the leopard was just them playing silly beggars. Mark my words, he had it coming. He should have kept his big mouth shut and his nose out of other people's business."

Finsbury's plate scraped the surface of the table as he stabbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. He said nothing, but I wondered if there was some connection between Warboys's remark and his sudden departure. I did not yet know any of them well enough to speculate, although either Finsbury found the conversation distasteful, which it certainly was, or disquieting if he knew more about it than he was prepared to say. Until he broke his silence, I could not say for sure. If he did know something about Harding's death, then getting it out of him was going to prove a challenge.

His leaving spurred the others into action. A bell rang and Jeffreys hurried to answer its call. The Salisbury twins were set to shelling peas, and Mr Fraiser announced that it was time I was shown my duties. My curiosity about what a man of his bearing was doing in a place like this was answered when I saw his pronounced limp. An old soldier, invalided out of the army, forced to take whatever position had presented itself. As head steward, he had managed to retain some pride and continued giving orders and expecting men to obey without question. Such was his authority that I did not delay when he bade me look lively and dutifully followed in his wake as he headed into the main building.

We began upstairs with the servants' bedrooms that nestled on the upper storey. The room that was to be mine had been Harding's; his few possessions still littered the place, ready for their owner's return. A shaving brush, cup and razor, a Bible on the bedside table, a pair of well-worn boots on the floor. It was not much to show for a life, even less for a life which had been ended with such brutality.

While I pondered the meagre existence of the previous occupant, Fraiser went in search of club livery to fit my build. In his absence, I opened the wardrobe to find several clean shirts and an old winter coat hanging on the rail. Stuffed at the bottom was a tartan blanket covered in long white and brown hairs and with the sort of smell that one associates with wet dogs. Clearly concern for employees shivering up here in the eaves did not weigh heavily on the collective conscience of the Tankerville's ruling body, if all they could provide to keep out the cold was this threadbare rag.

Fraiser had done his best, but the clothes with which he returned had been meant for someone shorter than myself. The sleeves left a portion of my wrists bare, an unfortunate sartorial lapse that only the rounding of my shoulders would remedy, while the trousers required me to stoop to make up for the discrepancy between boot and fabric. I was left hunched and uncomfortable, and my ordeal had barely begun.

Downstairs, the second floor was home to offices and bedrooms for those members who stayed the night. Below, on the first floor, I was led around the principal suite of rooms with Fraiser reeling off the names like a list of ingredients: the gaming room, the dining room, the library, the billiard room and finally the Trophy Room, which, given earlier events, had more than a little interest for me.

The room itself was stifling, intensely crowded and so lacking in life. Forming a continuous band around the top of the wall was row upon row of dismembered fox heads, each labelled and attributed to the contributing member. Elsewhere were glass cabinets, fairly bulging with stuffed mammalian and avian specimens of very variety and hue. The one empty case in the room was also missing a front panel of glass. Its gold inscription told me that until last night it had housed the leopard used to confuse investigators as to the cause of Harding's death. The name of the member who had presented it to the club was Major Sebastian Moran.

If fate was considerate enough to make more of those moments in one's life that later prove pivotal, then one would be better prepared for the events that follow. As it was, the name meant nothing to me. Instead, my attention was being directed to a portrait of a bewigged gentleman on the wall above the fireplace with a brace of grouse in his hand.

"Sir William de Tankerville," explained Fraiser. "Loved the hunt more than he loved his wife and children, so they say. He set up the Tankerville Club in 1799, so like-minded gentlemen could get together while they were in town. Then, about thirty years ago, they restricted the membership to military men who were big-game hunters to keep the riff-raff out. What you see here are some of their efforts."

The plangent collection of glass-eyed ducks and hawks were hardly what I would have described as such and I lightly made this observation to him.

He glowered at me. "The criteria for membership doesn't say what you have to give, only that it has to be something taken by the member in question. Most of them keep their best specimens at home."

"And the leopard?" I asked.

"The least impressive of the Major's collection, so I'm told. When it returns after the police have finished with it, you'll see why."

I was less interested in Major Moran's contribution than in the irregular marks I had noticed on the parquet floor, forming a vague outline where a body had lain. Maurice Salisbury had been telling the truth about his inability to remove the bloodstains.

"Shame about that," Fraiser grunted, following my gaze.

I imagined he was referring to the young man's death, but his next remark dispelled my illusions.

"A good oak floor was that. I dare say a rug will cover up the worst of it."

It would have never have occurred to Henry Holmes to disagree, so I said nothing. In truth, my stomach had knotted to the point of disgust. Harding had been left here, a corpse amongst corpses, his death a mockery, his body defiled. Try as might to view the case objectively, I could not help wondering if the choice of Harding's final resting place had been significant, another trophy added to the Tankerville's collection.

The thought made my blood run cold. I was glad to leave.

At least I was until we ended our tour of the building in a large vaulted room with a sprung floor that was unmistakeably a gymnasium. Racks of fencing weapons lined one wall and several protective masks lay discarded on a bench where the members had been practising. In my university days, I had known such a place, and the thrill of taking a blade into one's hand and testing one's skill against another. Its neglect since my arrival in London was another of those things I had had to sacrifice on the altar of my chosen profession.

Now my hand yearned to take up a weapon again. The head steward, however, had other ideas.

"We have a tradition here at the Tankerville," said he, with what looked like a most malicious smile on his face. "New boys, like you, Mr Holmes, get the special duties."

I had expected some sort of test before the other members of staff fully accepted me into their ranks. I had thought we had passed that point with my self-poisoning with rancid food in the kitchen. As it happened, the eating of stale bread and suspicious meat was to be the least of my worries.

"Special?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, lad." Fraiser's grin broadened as he pressed a cloth and tin of wax into my hands. "You get to polish the gymnasium floor."

* * *

_Sounds like fun – not!__ Still, Sherlock Holmes and Sebastian Moran in the same building should be interesting…_

_Cheer up, Mr Holmes, things can only get better in Chapter Four!_


	5. Chapter Four

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Four**

To those who claim that suffering is good for the soul, I would suggest they try it for themselves before advocating it for other people. In my opinion, suffering does nothing but add to the ills that already plague society and serves only to break one's spirits. I am able to speak from experience in this, for by the time I had finished polishing that accursed gymnasium floor, I was wretched at heart, tortured in body and utterly despondent.

More than that, I intended to write a letter of complaint to the makers of 'Mr Heartly's Patent Compound of Floor Wax' for their boast that their product guaranteed the best of results with minimal effort was a blatant lie.

I had scrubbed at marks, rubbed at stains and laboured over every inch of that floor until my fingers were sore and my knees pained. Then Mr Fraiser had returned to inspect my work, found a tiny imperfection and told me to do it all over again. It would teach me, he claimed, not to be lazy in future. Furthermore, if he ever caught me with my sleeves rolled up again whilst in the members' area, he promised to box my ears.

He could try, I thought. I was prepared to submit to certain indignities, but even I had my limits.

By then, however, my natural instinct to dispute the case with him had been crushed. I said nothing, but got back on my hands and knees and repeated the weary process all over again. It was gruelling, soul-destroying work, and the floor was as hard on the knees as lacquered shell from years of varnish.

By the time I had finished a second time, my back was so crippled with pain that I feared I might never stand upright again. There was not one part of my body that did not ache and muscles that had hitherto given me little trouble now grumbled aloud their complaints with every movement.

It was midnight and I hurt. I wanted my bed, however foul my surroundings. With this precious hope in mind, I limped back to the kitchen to find that most had retired. Only Mr Warboys remained and he was in the process of plucking the soft marrow from a bone and ladling it into his mouth.

I told him that I was to inform the head steward when I had finished so that he give his approval to my efforts. At this, he laughed. Fraiser did that to all the new boys, said he. There had been nothing wrong with my work the first time, but repeating it served to keep cocky young men in their places.

I inwardly cursed the man. No doubt such methods had worked well enough in the army, no doubt, but here in civilian life, it was heavy-handed to say the least. And I disagreed that my behaviour thus far had been cocky in the slightest.

I was annoyed, but also grateful to learn that my ordeal in the gymnasium was over. If my aching body would permit, I should sleep like the dead till morning. A poor choice of words given the gruesome discovery earlier in the day in the Tankerville's Trophy Room, but I was truly fit to drop. I no longer walked; I staggered. My eyesight was blurred and my head pounded from close inhalation of the noxious odour of the floor wax.

If I thought my duties were over, however, I was wrong. Mr Warboys informed me that a club member had arrived late and his horse needed grooming. Normally, he explained, the steward on duty would see to such a thing, but since Jeffreys, who had that dubious honour that evening, was afraid of horses, someone else would have to do it.

That someone else was me. Warboys made no move to suggest that he might be called upon in such a capacity. Instead, it fell to the person at the bottom of the pile, the newest recruit to the Tankerville's staff. There was nothing for it. I dragged myself to the stables, found the grooming tools and went to face what I hoped would be my final task of the evening.

The beast in question was a raw-boned grey, with a mean look in its eyes and flaring nostrils. It laid its ears back the moment it saw me and lunged with bared teeth in my direction. I sprang backwards before a chunk was taken from my thigh.

I was starting to suspect that far from Jeffrey's alleged aversion to horses, the truth was that the others knew this animal all too well and wanted nothing to do with the miserable wretch. It stood as its owner had left it, with the saddle girth still tight around its stomach and the bit in its mouth. Its legs were wetly caked in the slush from the streets outside and dark patches showed on its cheeks, shoulders and flanks where the sweat had yet to dry.

It had been neither watered or fed, save for a handful of hay that someone had thrown into the stable at a safe distance. Left under such conditions, I too would have been ill-tempered and unhappy. Not that sympathy on my part was going to make this any easier for either of us. If I emerged from this encounter unscathed, I would consider myself fortunate indeed.

I hoped we could come to an understanding. The horse had other ideas. He too knew this place and I wondered if in the past he had received rough treatment at one or other of their hands. He was prepared to defend himself and was well armed with the teeth and hooves to do so. I have enough dealings with horses in the past to know the capabilities of my opponent and accordingly I reconsidered my approach.

A handful of hay served as a peace offering. The horse sniffed it and then snatched it from my outstretched hand. He was still wary and let out a warning snicker as I laid my hand on the cold, damp neck. Beneath the skin, the muscles shivered at my touch. I did nothing to alarm, but kept up a gentle presence, establishing a trust until I was permitted to undo the buckles on the bridle and remove the saddle. That done, I began to work the sweat and mud from the fine hairs with brush and scraper.

As I rose from stooping to pick stones from the animal's hooves, I heard the sound of someone knocking, fist against wood. I looked out across the dim courtyard to see a man swathed in dark clothes hammering at the kitchen door. In answer, a light appeared and with it came Mr Warboys.

He glanced about him in a most furtive manner, especially in my direction, although the dark interior of the stable hid me from his sight. Satisfied that he was not being observed, he exchanged a few words with the stranger. I heard the clink of coins and a hefty bundle tied and wrapped in brown paper was passed into the kitchen. The business done, the stranger pulled up his collar and hurried away. Mr Warboys retreated into the kitchen and all was dark again.

I had expected developments, but not this fast. My first instinct was to follow the man, although in this weather with neither hat nor coat the venture was foolhardy to say the least. A more realistic option was to burst in upon the unsuspecting Warboys and demand to know what game he was playing.

It was tempting, but other considerations held my hand. I could not afford to risk expose so soon. This exchange could have been perfectly innocent and I would have shot my bolt for nothing.

Except I remembered Warboys's remark of earlier that Harding should have minded his own business and not pried into the affairs of others. At the time, I wondered if it was meant in a general sense, but in light of the meeting I had seen I had to wonder. On the other hand, Warboys did not seem the type to invent an elaborate charade to disguise the means of a man's death, not least because he lacked a certain creative imagination. Anyone who could offer the same dish on successive nights with a different choice of gravy and not expect anyone to notice was either woefully optimistic or plainly a fool.

My dislike for a mystery is, however, only surpassed by my dislike for idle speculation. The only way to discover the truth was to investigate. My curiosity got the better of me.

That, and a sharp pair of teeth that suddenly latched onto my rump. I yelped and clasped my hand to torn fabric. The horse regarded me in triumph and snorted his pleasure. I had turned my back and presented him with too tempting a target. He was pleased to be rugged, watered and fed, but there was still the question of his honour. He had bitten me, out of pure spite, and very happy he seemed about it too.

I was less thrilled, especially when I discovered that the wound was bleeding. I imagined Mr Fraiser had a set penalty for members of staff who appeared on duty in ripped trousers. Probably it involved polishing the gymnasium floor again. That I wanted to avoid at all costs, but what to do to keep out of his bad books was less clear.

Generally speaking, young men of good birth do not engage in the womanly arts of needlework. That is not to say that I have never on occasion needed to pick up a needle and thread to reattach a loose button. Patching trousers, like darning socks, is quite another matter.

I could not believe this was the first time this had happened. I trusted that there was some provision for unfortunates who fell foul of mean-spirited horses. I suddenly realised that I had been given the perfect opportunity to beard Mr Warboys in his lair and catch him at his nefarious work on the pretext of begging assistance. Strange how good fortune seems to come in the oddest of disguises.

I did not delay. I hobbled out of the stable, my skin smarting with every step I took, and made my way to the kitchen. My footsteps were cautious at first, least Warboys become alerted to my presence. Then at the threshold I fairly burst in upon him, bewailing my maltreatment at the hands of the recalcitrant beast.

My initiative was faultless. Warboys was startled and caught in the very act of butchery. The hand that held the knife was red and coated with clots and slivers of fat. Several cuts of meat had already been severed from the carcase and lay on a tin platter ready for trussing. It was a bloody business, but not what I had been expecting.

"Brisket," he said, almost apologetically, as we surveyed the remains of the sizable side of beef that I had witnessed being passed into the kitchen. "Mrs Warboys'll be back tomorrow and she does love her bit of brisket. Always pleases the gentlemen it does too."

"Then I look forward to it," said I. "What about my trousers?"

"There's a sewing case in the cupboard," said he, gesturing to the one in question. "Mind you get that tear mended tonight, young man. Mr Fraiser don't like his junior stewards coming on duty looking untidy. Mark my words, there'll be hell to pay if he catches you looking like that."

"I dare say."

His expression softened. "You'd better get some sleep, Mr Holmes. It's an early start in the morning. You be sure and come down here for your breakfast before the others. They're a greedy lot."

I thanked him for his counsel and slunk away to my room. I had hoped for so much more. Certainly Warboys had been worried about something; his face had been a picture of guilt. I suspected that stemmed from the nature of the delivery. He would not the first to make a few pence for himself by doing business with a butcher keen to make a quick sale on meat sold under the counter. I suspected that this was one of many fiddles and scams that the staff of the Tankerville ran to supplement their meagre wages.

I was less concerned with their cutting corners with the club's supplies than the reason for Harding's death. If he had known about Warboys's nightly activities, he could easily have got the old man and his wife dismissed. Whether it was a good enough reason for his death was debateable. People have been killed for lesser reasons in the past, although it did not explain the elaborate lengths the murderers had gone to in an attempt to conceal the nature of his death.

In all honesty, I was too tired to give the matter much thought. How I managed to climb the flights of stairs to the attic I will never know. Yawning, I stumbled into my room and found a young woman on my bed.

It was hard to say who was the more surprised. This unexpected vision standing with her feet firmly planted in the centre of the sheets certainly brought me up short. The face was cherubic in its prettiness, although bearing those traces of hard labour that renders a girl of seventeen years old before her time. The eyes that stared back at me were an intense brown given inner fire by fear and the flickering candle she held. Curls of auburn tumbled from the sides of her blue cap and draped about her thin shoulders, tendrils of deep colour to add life to the plainness of the brown dress and apron she wore.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I could ask the same question," I retorted curtly. "This _is_ my room, after all."

"Your room? But Mr Harding—"

"Was forced to vacate this morning under less than auspicious circumstances."

She nodded. "I know. He's dead. They told me."

"And I am his replacement. My name is Henry Holmes."

"Emily," she said. "Emily Rush."

"Well, Miss Rush," said I, "what are you doing?"

A flush of colour came to her cheeks. "My mother does the laundry, sir. I comes round every night and collects the gentlemen's things."

"I guarantee you won't find any up there," I said, with a pointed look at the section of ceiling she had removed. I had noted the trap door on my earlier inspection and had thought to explore it in case Harding had used it as a hiding place. I had my answer.

"No, sir," she mumbled. "I was just—"

"Yes?"

"Nothing, sir."

I held out my hand to her and helped her down from the bed. "Would you mind if I take a look?"

Only her expressive eyes betrayed her. She said nothing, but I felt her keen gaze upon me as I hopped onto the bed and raised myself up on tiptoe to peer into the darkness of the roof space. The sharp odour of urine and excrement made me recoil and I was forced to take a deep breath before I could investigate further. The indistinct shapes of wood struts and braces seemed to be all there was to see, although I was aware of a presence in the gloom. Someone _was_ hiding up there. I could hear the sound of their laboured breathing and the scratch of their nails upon the ceilings boards.

I quickly withdrew my head.

"Who is it?" I demanded. "Who's up there?"

She ran to me and clutched at my hand. "Please, sir, don't hurt him. He don't mean no harm."

"Who?" I repeated firmly.

"He's only young and he's got no one to look after him. I should have taken him away sooner, but I only comes here at night. They won't let women in here in the day."

I sighed. So much for a peaceful night's sleep. "I won't hurt him," I promised. "But he can't stay up there. Give me the candle. I'll tell him it's safe to come down."

"You swear it?" she insisted.

"On everything I hold dear. Now, please, Miss Rush, release my hand."

She did as I asked. Taking the candle, I brought illumination into the dark spaces above. Two bright circles of light flared into life. Then, just as quickly, they were hurtling towards me. Something solid hit me full in the face, causing me to reel backwards under a weight that dropped suddenly into my arms. Rusty springs squealed as we fell onto the bed and bounced several times before I was able to regain my wits.

Only then did I dare to look at my attacker, who had taken it upon himself to slobber with a wet tongue at my chin. I prised him away and found myself face to face with a lop-eared puppy.

"What the deuce—" I began.

"He's Mr Harding's dog," said the girl. "I mean, he _was_. His name's Toby."

It has always been my opinion that dogs with such an appellation should have a certain winsome appeal. This Toby was an ugly specimen, seemingly the result of an illicit liaison between a spaniel and a lurcher. Its brown and white coat was already rather longer than was practical in a dog of its sort and its dangling ears seemed too big for its puny body.

What it lacked in looks, however, it made up for in appeal. Its great eyes were shining with excitement and from its tongue dribbled globules of drool. The lengthy tail kept up a constant tempo, smacking at my arms in its wild see-saw from side to side. It was hard not to be moved by the little creature, eager to bestow its gratitude on anyone who came to liberate it from its dark quarters.

I put Toby on the floor and stood up to brush the dog hairs from my clothes, the same I had found on the threadbare tartan blanket in the cupboard. That explained that particular mystery.

"This dog lives in the loft?" I asked. "Is that normal, Miss Rush?"

"Mr Harding hadn't had him long, sir," said she. "He found him, about five weeks ago. Fished him out of the Thames in a sack he did, poor little mite. Someone had thrown him and six other pups in the river to drown. The others were dead, sir, but Toby had survived. Mr Harding was taking care of him, sir. Only the club don't like animals, well, not live ones anyhow, so he had to keep him up there so no one would know."

"You knew."

A faint smile touched her lips. "I brought him scraps from the kitchen. Mr Harding used to let me feed him, like."

To support her story, she took a stained bundle from the floor and unwrapped it to reveal several bones with a little meat still clinging to them. I had not disbelieved her, but I was starting to wonder about the character of a man who used a puppy to encourage guileless young women to come to his room in the dead of night.

"Was that wise?" I said. "You, being here alone with him?"

"Oh, it weren't like that, sir," said she. "He never tried it on with me. We just used to talk."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"He were a good man were Mr Harding, whatever the others might say about him."

"What do they say?" I inquired.

She regarded me warily. "That he were proud above his station. Said he used to sneer at them and look down on them. But that was just his way, sir. He were quiet, that's all, and thoughtful like." She gave me a shy smile. "He said I should be making something of me life instead of washing dirty clothes like me Ma. He said if he had the money, he'd send me to school for book learning so I could be a typist and all."

I sighed wearily. I was gaining a very confused picture of the late Mr Harding. A busybody on one hand and a paragon on the other, the gallant rescuer of dogs from drowning and girls from a life of drudgery. There were some who would mourn his loss as keenly as those who would not.

"What will you do, sir?" she asked anxiously. "With Toby? I can't take him home with me. Me Ma don't like dogs. You won't hurt him, will you?"

The puppy was testing his teeth on the bones she had brought. At the mention of his name, he turned liquid eyes in my direction. Sentiment is tantamount to ruin in my chosen profession, but it would have taken a harder heart than mine to turn him out into the night.

"He can stay here for the time being," I relented. "But a home will have to found for him. I can't keep him, I'm afraid."

If I did, my landlady would have something to say about it and then we would both find ourselves homeless.

"Oh, sir," she thrilled. "Bless you, Mr Holmes. May I still visit him, sir, and bring him food?"

"I'm not sure that is advisable, Miss Rush."

She blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"Because… well, because it is inappropriate."

One supposes that one's own understanding in such matters is shared by others. Here it was not the case. That I was expressing concern as much for her reputation as mine did not seem to occur to her. Instead, her face fell and tears started to well up in her eyes.

For the second time that night, I let sympathy get the better of me. Tongues would no doubt wag, as they had probably done so in speculation of her nightly visits to Mr Harding. I could only wonder what my brother would say about the arrangement. Knowing him, he would approve, considering the number of times he had suggested I turn my attentions away from the pursuit of what he called my 'hobby' in the fields of observation and detection to the concerns that attract other young men of my age.

"Very well," said I. "You may continue to bring Toby food."

It was strangely rewarding to see the smile return to her face. She wiped away her tears and beamed at both the puppy and myself.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "That's mighty kind of you."

"My pleasure, Miss Rush."

She giggled. "Ain't no one called me 'Miss Rush' afore, 'cepting you and Mr Harding. You got a nice way with you, Mr Henry Holmes."

She was staring up at me now from her under eyelashes. The last time I had seen such a look, it had been followed shortly after by the unwanted attentions of a woman twice my size. The ghost of Mrs Webber, the Strong Woman of Stoke Poges, still loomed large in my mind and reminded me to be wary of feminine wiles.

"You should go," I suggested.

She nodded. "Do you want me to mend those? Your trousers, I mean. Mr Fraiser won't be pleased if he sees that."

Between dogs and young women, I had quite forgotten about my other problem. The offer was a welcome one and I accepted.

She seemed inclined to linger, as though she expected me to disrobe on the spot. I dare say such things were handled at the Tankerville with a good deal less formality than I am used to, but I had had a good upbringing. Henry Holmes might have handed over the torn garments without a moment's thought, but Sherlock Holmes had certain standards which included not undressing in front of members of the opposite sex.

"I'll leave them by the door," said I, ushering her out.

"I'll have them back before morning," said she. "Good night, Mr Holmes."

"Good night, Miss Rush. And thank you."

I closed the door and leaned up against it with a hearty sigh. The puppy raised his head and glanced up at me expectantly.

"You can stay," I told him, undoing my buttons. "But don't look."

* * *

_That goes for everyone else too – no peeping!_

_Go to bed, Mr Holmes, you've an early start in Chapter Five!_


	6. Chapter Five

**_The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard_**

**Chapter Five**

I awoke to the sound of running feet, a distant voice declaring it was time to get up and a pounding on my door matched only by the pounding in my head. Even before I opened my eyes, I knew the day did not promise well.

A foul taste pervaded my mouth and with it arose a feeling of biliousness as though my stomach lining had turned to grease during the night. Quite simply, I had been poisoned, although not by some rare and untraceable alkaloid, but by the curious fare they served in the Tankerville's kitchens. With any luck, I might be forced to take to my bed, which would spare me the inconvenience of rising and whatever duties the head steward had planned for me today.

I had hopes in that direction, for another of my symptoms was an unaccustomed constriction of my chest, as though a weight was bearing down upon me. Whatever it was also had a tendency to snore ever so gently and fan my chin with a warm meaty breath. I opened one eye and saw a be-whiskered muzzle inches from my nose.

I had left the dog on his blanket with the expectation that he would remain there during the night. Toby had had other ideas. I had been that tired that I had not felt him leap up onto the bed and slowly draw himself ever higher up my chest until we were lying nose to nose. As a result, we had comfortably warmed each other during the chill of the night and had both slept soundly for the few hours permitted to us.

Now two chocolate brown eyes blinked open and regarded me mournfully. If he was trying to tell me that it was too early to be waking on a dark, cold morning like this, I could not disagree. My watch told me it was half past five; I had had just over three hours sleep. Today was going to be very trying indeed.

Rise I did, however, and managed somehow not to slit my throat in the process of shaving despite my eyelids maintaining a constant downwards drift. I dressed as best I could and opened the door to find a pair of neatly folded, pressed and mended trousers on the floor outside. Miss Emily Rush had worked her magic in the night. She had even let down the hems. I could stand tall again.

Toby whined miserably when I put him back into the loft space to pass the day while I was gone. I would have not willingly consigned any living thing to that rank place and to hear his whimpers and feel the soft, wet tongue caressing my hand almost weakened my resolve. Other arrangements were going to have to be made for him. When I left this place, I could not in all good conscience bear the thought of leaving him behind.

Pondering this problem, I wandered down to the kitchen and entered a scene straight out of Dante's _Inferno_.

Had the place been any hotter, the roof would have caught alight. The fire was blazing, pots were boiling and the air was thick with the rich smells of newly-baked bread and bacon. Red faces crowded around the table, matched by the scarlet cheeks of a rotund woman with a greasy yellow-grey hair and a dirty apron tidied so tightly around her middle that she gave the appearance of being a bloated sand-timer. Evidently, this was Mrs Warboys, restored to health and in full command of her domain.

Needless to say, the conversation came to an abrupt halt at my appearance. Long after my presence had been registered and dismissed, I was left stranded in an awkward silence, aware that I had committed some unforgivable sin and not knowing what.

At the top of the table, the head steward was glowering at me as he ripped into something that looked like it had been stewed in grease overnight. His jaws were moving methodically, carefully processing a lump of bread with its bright yellow smear of butter. I had the distinct impression of a cow chewing the cud, although his manner was anything but bovine.

"You're late," he said between mouthfuls.

It was a matter of a few minutes. I was relieved it was not something more unforgivable. There was a set fine for lateness, and it did not involve polishing acres of wood floors.

Anxious not to compound one error with another, I swallowed my pride. "I apologise. It won't happen again."

"It better not."

I waited for the inevitable penalty. His next remark took me pleasantly by surprise.

"As you're new, I'll overlook it this time," said he, grudgingly. "Especially as how Mr Warboys tells me you had a run-in with Satan last night."

Of the many vexatious events of the previous day, an encounter with the forces of darkness had not featured among them. Unless one included the slop that passed as being suitable for human consumption and the effects that were still worrying at my innards.

"Satan?" I queried.

"Major Handyman's horse." Fraiser eyed me critically. "Turn around, lad."

From his position lounging by the fire, Warboys had the good grace to blush. Evidently, he had wasted no time in telling the others that I had emerged from the stable bloodied and torn of trouser. So much for solidarity. I had yet to broach that barrier.

Turn I did, however, and no doubt all and sundry were disappointed to see that I had not presented myself for the day's duties in a ripped uniform. Even the head steward seemed pleasantly surprised, although the twinkle of malice I caught in his eyes alerted me that I was not about to escape entirely unscathed.

"Not bad," said he. "Not bad at all, lad. Well, since you seem able to handle the beast, the duty is yours from now on. None of us will set foot near that horse for love nor money."

I felt an inward twinge of dismay. "Major Handyman will be here long?" I ventured.

At the table, Campbell grinned. "Who knows? He always stays here when he's in London. Saves him the expense of having to pay for a hotel."

"That's enough of your lip," said Fraiser. "But the lad speaks the truth. Out at nine, regular as clockwork, back by midnight."

"Unless there's a game on," said one of the vacant twins, Horace Salisbury. "Then he be back by eight and that horse with him."

"Of course the horse is with him," said Warboys reproachfully. "How d'you think he gets about?"

I was less concerned with the Major's travel arrangements than the prospect of having to wait up every night for the man to return. I wondered how long I would be able to survive on less than five hours sleep a night before I collapsed senseless on the floor.

Less than a day at the Tankerville and already I was hankering after my own bed, my own clothes and my own appearance. I hated this assumed life with a vengeance. I wanted nothing more than to bury Henry Holmes and become Sherlock again.

There was one way out of my predicament: solve the question of who had murdered Michael Harding. Do that, and I would be free to walk away from this place and never return. Today, I told myself, I would make progress. Equally, I could tell Lestrade that I could not help him and take up the strand of my life where I had left off. However, to back down from a challenge was anathema to me; added to which, I owed the man. I would have to stay, but it did not mean I had to like it.

After a dressing down and cursory inspection, I was allowed to take a place at the table. I had been hoping to avoid eating, but Mrs Warboys slapped down a bowl of something that looked like milky sawdust and waited for me to take a mouthful. She had a large wooden spoon in her hand and the will to use it should I resist. Like the coward I undoubtedly was, I complied.

I was told it was porridge; if so, it was like none I had ever eaten before. Rather, it tasted like it had been scraped from the floor of the stables. My stomach rebelled. Had she forced me to eat another spoonful, I should have surely succumbed to violent nausea. As it was, she appeared satisfied with my efforts and returned to her cooking pots.

Thankful for her absence, I laid down my spoon in time to feel an icy draught course up my back as the door opened to admit a sandy-haired man with bloodshot eyes and a weather-beaten complex. Since he was clad in the same attire as the club doorman I had seen the previous day, I was led to the inevitable conclusion that this fellow had had the night shift on the door and had just come off duty, which accounted for our not being introduced before.

"Well, now, Mr Bullen," said Mrs Warboys cheerily, "it's about time too. I was about to send out one of the boys to fetch you afore your breakfast got cold."

Being club doorman clearly had its advantages. The plate that was set down at the spare space at the table had a full compliment of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and tomatoes. Glancing down at my own poor offering, I had cause to question if the position I had so readily accepted was the right choice. Failing that, I dreaded to think what one might have to do to get such consideration from the Tankerville's cook.

Meanwhile, Mr Bullen settled himself on the bench with a sigh of weariness and unbuttoned his jacket. The gaze that he directed at me was by no means friendly.

"You Mr Holmes?" he demanded gruffly.

"Henry Holmes," I replied. "I'm new. I only started—"

"Letter for you," Bullen grunted, fishing in his waistcoat pocket. "Came by special messenger ten minutes ago."

He tossed a crumpled brown package across the table at me.

"I've been here nigh on fifteen years, and I ain't never received no letters," he said, adding the final touches to my mortification as he ladled watery eggs into his mouth.

He had voiced the question that had no doubt come to the minds of all the others. Employed here not yet a full day and already I was in possession of personal correspondence. Furthermore, I had told them I had no kith or kin. This letter proved that someone knew me and knew where I was staying. So much for creating a credible background for my assumed character.

In actual fact, I knew who it was from, since the only person who was privy my being here was Inspector Lestrade. Why he had taken his unprecedented step was less clear. It had been my understanding that should the need arise, I would contact him. Whatever had possessed him to go to such lengths I hoped was good reason to excuse his placing me in this awkward situation.

"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Fraiser.

"I know who it's from," I said. "It's not important."

"Sent by special messenger and you say it's not important? Is there something you aren't telling us, lad?"

I was rapidly being backed into a corner. I had become an object of interest, the recipient of mysterious missives, and my furtive manner was not helping matters. Far from being the inoffensive, unremarkable creature I had contrived to create, Henry Holmes was now attracting far too much attention.

I could not suddenly invent a family having previously claimed to be an orphan. No one likes a liar and poor liars even less. Instead, I decided on a course that was nearer to the truth.

"It's a debt of honour."

Which to an extent it was. I had given my word that I would undertake the task of helping Lestrade in his investigation. Moreover, the weight of his loan still lay heavy on my conscience. The others around the table, however, would interpret my words according to their own understanding.

"A gambling debt?" said a scandalised Mr Fraiser, rising abruptly to his feet. "I knew you were a wrong'un, Holmes, the minute I clapped eyes on you. A man who runs out on his debts is lower than the meanest of God's creatures!"

The transformation of my character from insignificant nothingness to reprobate was quite something to behold. With one letter and a few well-chosen words, I had acquired a reputation. I was keenly aware of the glances that were passing around the table. I was being reassessed, although for good or evil I had yet to discover.

"I didn't expect them to find me so fast," I said by way of explanation.

"A bad debt will always catch up with you," said Warboys. "Have you the money?"

I shook my head in a most convincing manner. Worryingly, I found that I was enjoying this new facet to Henry Holmes's character, perhaps too much.

"Luck hasn't been on my side lately," I admitted.

"Ah, it's a fickle thing," said Warboys, his eyes taking on a wistful sheen. "Gets your hopes up with a winning streak, then tears you down to nothing. Well, so I've heard," he added quickly, when his wife gave him a curious glance.

"Is it a threat?" Campbell wanted to know, gesturing the letter.

When I hesitated, he plucked it from my grasp, much to my consternation. Before I or any of the others could stop him, he had ripped it open and the contents spilled out onto the table. My fears about what Lestrade might have put in the envelope come to nothing.

I was able to breathe again when I saw the pouch of Hobson's Finest Choice Tobacco and a small white card with a message written on one side and a number, 1805, bordered on all four sides with a black line on the other.

" 'We need to talk'," Campbell read out. "Doesn't sound too friendly to me. Handy, are they? You need help with these geezers, Holmes?"

A day ago, this same fellow had been scowling at me. Today, he was offering his assistance. My rehabilitation in his eyes at least had been a success.

"They don't mean me harm _yet_," I said. "But I will have to speak to them."

"You've got an hour for lunch," said Fraiser, resuming his seat. "Take it when you need. But mind you don't go bringing trouble back here with you, lad."

"I won't," I promised.

He grunted his approval. "Good. Well, if you're finished, you can make a start preparing the dining room for breakfast. And be quick about it. The members are early risers and they don't like to be kept waiting."

Left to my own devices, I would have crawled back to bed and stayed there until noon. Three hours sleep, a liverish constitution and an early morning interrogation had already conspired to exhaust my energy. Instead, I found myself waiting table, forcing my pride to one side and stifling yawn after yawn.

As baptisms of fire go, I had much to learn. The first thing to understand was that one ceases to be an individual, but rather becomes part of the furniture, to be addressed either as 'steward' or, if particularly unlucky, 'boy'. I was not used to being summoned with a wave of the hand or a snap of the fingers like a wayward dog. I did it because I had to, and with gritted teeth all the while.

The second thing, and tied inextricably with the first consideration, was that in losing one's identity, one became anonymous and therefore irrelevant. While I poured coffee, I listened to snatches of conversation about the sort of thing best discussed behind closed doors.

One elderly gentleman was telling another member how much money his son had made from a dubious property deal at the expense of the previous owners of the land. A younger man with dashing good looks and a waxed moustache was boasting about his dalliances with the daughter of country squire. Would he marry her, his companion wanted to know. Not much chance of that, said the rake, for her father had not two brass farthings to rub together and the girl's charms did not warrant penury when there were richer pickings to be had elsewhere.

If I was of a criminal disposition, I could have made my fortune that morning. Until I had experienced the condition personally, I had never given a second thought about discussing confidences over the dinner table within earshot of waiters. The occupation was a gift to any scoundrel with the intelligence to extort money from the unsuspecting and incautious.

I wondered if the same thought had occurred to Michael Harding. If he had tried to profit from something he had heard, had it been the cause of his death?

There was certainly material enough here to blackmail the whole company. Equally, I had little trouble in seeing any member shying away from the prospect of ridding themselves of a blackmailing menial. So far, I had heard talk of ruined fortunes and ruined reputations. How short a step would it be from misdemeanours to murder?

While I pondered this problem, the gathering was joined by the last of the members who had stayed overnight. This man was tall and sinewy, still bearing the virility and vigour of youth despite being somewhere in his late thirties. Fluid in movement and dark of colouring, he entered the room with the natural authority of one used to a position of command.

Wary eyes lifted to take in the twin strokes of his black brows, above which the expanse of forehead rose to thick, wavy hair, laced at the sides with the merest touch of grey. The only fault one could find in the man was the right arm which he held stiffly across his middle, indicative of an injury gained and slow to heal.

Across the room, a man rose and waved to this newcomer.

"Moran!" he called. "Come and join me."

So, here was the fellow whose name I had read in the Trophy Room. He was an impressive specimen, much like the leopard which had been the price of his admittance into the ranks of the Tankerville's members. Despite the smile that played across the thin lips, half hidden by his neat moustache, it did not extend to his pale blue eyes, placid now like damped-down fires, muted but alive.

A man not to be crossed, I decided, the sort of man who would not take kindly to a steward trying his hand at a little blackmail. I grabbed the coffee pot and hurried over to the pair.

"Last I heard of you was on that Jowaki Campaign," his companion was saying as I filled their cups. "Caught one in the shoulder, I see."

"A mere fleabite," said Moran dismissively. "I'd be out there still if it wasn't for the Old Man dying."

"Yes, I was sorry to hear about your father. A decent chap. You've returned to England to clear up his affairs?"

Moran nodded. "Another few days should do it, then I'll be heading out again. There's talk of unrest on the North-West Frontier."

"Isn't there always?" His companion grunted. "You know, at this rate, Moran, you'll make Lieutenant Colonel before you reach forty. Then what?"

A smile passed briefly across the brooding countenance. "Colonel?"

The other man laughed. "You aim too high, my dear fellow, although I have no doubt you'll reach that mark before any of us. I bow to your dedication, but I'm content with the quiet life now. Have you never thought of retiring?"

There followed some talk of a book Moran was compiling on the heavy game of the Western Himalayas, but precious little else that would profit a man intent on blackmail. On the whole, I was inclined to discount Moran, despite my earlier impressions. He seemed much too cautious an individual to be caught disclosing his sins in public.

Disappointed, I moved on to another table, beckoned by the idle wave of a hand that appeared from behind an early edition of _The Times_. I stooped to fill the empty cup when suddenly that same hand closed around my wrist and trapped me in a vice-like grip.

* * *

_Have any of you amateur sleuths deduced the meaning of Lestrade's message? __**"I saw the pouch of Hobson's Finest Choice Tobacco and a small white card with a message written on one side and a number, 1805, bordered on all four sides with a black line on the other."**__ There's a time and a location for their meeting hidden in there. Does anyone know where and when it is?_

_Meanwhile, oh dear, Mr Holmes, whatever will happen to you in Chapter Six!_


	7. Chapter Six

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Six**

"Are we boring you?" came an imperious voice from behind the newspaper.

At that moment, startled out of mindless obedience, I was quite the opposite. The fingers that had clamped around my wrist were iron-tight in their hold, pressing hard upon the bones and bleaching the skin beneath to a sickly yellow hue.

Uncomfortable, but bearable, unlike the scalding touch of the coffee pot. I could not relinquish my hold and the proximity of hot metal was steadily burning my knuckles through the thin fabric of my gloves, making my hand tremble from the pain of it.

Slowly, the broadsheet was lowered, revealing the body to which the hand was attached. A man of some fifty years, compact in build and plain in clothing and accoutrements, with faded reddish-brown hair, now heavily dusted with silver. Grey was in his short beard, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw with two silver streaks and creeping up the sunken valleys of his cheeks beneath the stark bones. An aquiline nose, permanently flared of nostril, and a pair of startling hazel eyes, near gold around the pupils and close set, completed this vision.

He was waiting for an answer. I dared not open my mouth lest my only reply was to utter a cry at the heated torture of my fingers. The coffee pot rattled in my weakening grasp and slopped hot liquid over both our hands.

If it gave him pain, he did not show it. If anything, the golden eyes took up the smirk that twitched at the corners of his mouth and glared defiance at me for his greater ability to endure. How long we would have stood thus, I cared not think. It was beneath my dignity to grovel as it was beneath his to relent.

This deadlock was mercifully broken by the sudden appearance of the head steward, who came rushing to the table with an unaccustomed anxiety more commonly associated with a desire to please and pacify a superior officer.

"Major Handyman, sir," he twittered. "What has happened here?"

So, this was the owner of the horse aptly named Satan. They were well suited in temperament, I reflected. Both had taken a dislike to me and had put their feelings into painful action. I would have to exercise greater caution around them in the future.

For the present, Fraiser's intervention was timely. My wrist was abruptly released. I set the pot down and withdrew a distance, hardly daring to move my fingers. The source of my discomfort was gone and still the flesh burned. Had I looked down to find my arm on fire, I should not have been surprised. I yearned to plunge it into cold water, but Major Handyman was not finished with me yet.

"Ah, Mr Fraiser, as prompt as ever," said Handyman, idly dabbing at the brown coffee stains from his cuff. "You are _still_ in charge of the staff here at the Tankerville, I take it?"

A high colour rose to the man's cheeks. "Yes, indeed, Major."

"Then perhaps the time has come for you to stand aside. I had never thought the day would come when you allowed undisciplined scum like this whelp here to serve their betters whilst yawning their heads off."

I fairly shook with indignation, more being unmasked despite my best attempts to conceal my fatigue than at the insulting epithet assigned to me.

"He will be fined, sir, never fear," said the head steward.

"Inadequate. A fine is soon forgotten. What is needed is something that will leave a lasting impression."

Handyman took up the riding crop I had noticed by his chair and lovingly stroked the length of it. Then, he brought it down hard on the table top with force enough to make the teacups start from their saucers.

"Privates who dare to yawn in my presence are flogged, boy," said he, waving the looped end of the crop in my face. "Twenty of the best I dare say would teach you some manners. And twenty more for that insolent look in your eye!"

It occurred to me to remind him that in civilian life, matters were conducted rather differently. But then I was forgetting where I was. We civilians were vastly outnumbered here, and I saw several nods of approval at the Major's suggestion for my punishment. For one appalling moment, I thought he was about to make good on this threat. Then a tall figure inserted itself between us and brought the situation to a close.

"They have trouble enough keeping staff here without you threatening them with violence, Handyman," came the level voice of Major Moran. "Let the boy take his fine and learn his lesson from that. If he does it again, then you can horsewhip him with all our approval."

Several members laughed. Moran smiled. The tension melted away.

"One day, Moran, you'll go too far," growled Handyman.

"One day, Major, so will you," he replied evenly.

With a snort of impotent fury, Handyman kicked the chair away and stormed out the room. Moran released a held breath in a prolonged soft sigh and turned to me.

"What's your name, young man?" he asked me.

"Mr Holmes, sir."

"Well, Mr Holmes, keep out of trouble in future," said he. "Another slip-up will cost you, mark my words. Major Handyman will not be so easy to placate a second time."

I let the grovelling Henry Holmes answer where my prouder nature would not. "Thank you, sir."

Moran gave me a long stare. "Don't give me cause to regret it, young man."

Had I been blessed with foresight, I should have surely savoured the irony of that remark. Sixteen years later, I would give him cause enough to hate me more than any other in the world. For now, however, our battle lines had yet to be drawn. We were indifferent to each other's existence, our lives touching at this one point quite by chance. Time would weave the strands closer and our roles would shift from servant and soldier to hunter and hunted. Yes, one day he would regret it, but not here and not in this place.

As for me, I was bristling with indignation that someone had had the gall to think I needed anyone to fight my battles for me, and worse still that I had let them do it. The strain of this role was having a profound and worrying effect on my nature. If I had to maintain this for much longer, I was certain I would lose myself altogether.

With the drama over, the other members lost interest and continued with their meals or left to deal with the day's affairs. Moran made no move to return to his table, but instead made his apologies.

"I'll bid you good day, Stanhope," said he to his breakfast companion. "Duty calls."

"Perhaps we'll pick up where we left off tonight if you're still in town," said the other.

"Undoubtedly. The lawyers will force me to remain a few days yet."

And with this briefest of farewells, he was gone. In his wake, Fraiser indicated that I too should leave. Once outside the room, he fairly bundled me down to the courtyard and took me to task.

"How dare you bring shame on us all like that!" he barked, his face puce with fury.

"It was unintentional," I replied. "Am I to be censured for being tired?"

"You could be dead on your feet for all I care, lad," Fraiser shot back. "But you will not let the members see it. You seem to forget that whilst you are on duty, everything you do is noticed by someone. Your behaviour reflects on every other member of staff."

"I will endeavour to confine my yawns to less public places in future."

"You certainly will. I'm fining you a pound to help you remember."

I had yet to collect a penny of my wages and already I was in debt. More than that, I had been told that the set fine for yawning was a shilling. I was being punished for Major Handyman's unreasonable reaction and the slur he had cast on Fraiser's handling of his underlings. It was grossly unfair and I was unwise enough to say so.

"_Two_ pounds for your insolence!" said Fraiser. "Now get out of my sight. The Major's horse needs grooming and there's the silver to be polished. Be warned, Mr Holmes, that if I have much more of this behaviour, you'll be out on your ear. There's plenty more where you came from and a good deal less trouble too."

I watched him go, feeling the heat of anger fermenting within me. The man was a tyrant, passing down the scorn of others onto those less able to retaliate. There were a thousand things I could have said; that I held my tongue was testament to other considerations.

To be dismissed before I had made even the slightest progress with the business that had put me in this situation would be unthinkable. My reputation would be in tatters and Lestrade would likely be dismissed by his superiors as a scapegoat for the failings of the official investigation.

Besides, the morning had not been an entire waste. I had seen a man stirred to near violence over the slightest offence and the other members slow to reprimand him. If I was looking for a suspect, Major Handyman certainly fitted the bill.

I thought back to the gleam of almost perverse pleasure in his eyes as he had watched my reaction as my hand burned. Moran's words too, that one day the Major would go too far, made me wonder. Had Handyman already crossed that divide? Had Harding been tortured to death under his supervision and an implausible cause created to conceal a punishment taken to extremes?

It was one explanation, but one that made me shudder to think of its possible implications. I trusted I would not have to remain here long enough to discover the painful extent of the Major's vindictive nature.

Bad enough that my right hand was near crippled. Watery bloodstains marked the gloves where blisters had formed on my skin and burst, gluing the fabric to my hand. The area throbbed and the glove seemed stuck fast. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and pulled.

The glove came away with a fair amount of skin and a great deal of pain. What it had concealed was the red burns that ran from nails to knuckles, looking for all the world as though I had dipped my hand in a pot of red paint. The merest flexing of my fingers resulted in a violent smarting and the agonised tearing of skin rendered paper thin by heated metal.

I bit my lip, hurried into the kitchen, and plunged my hand into the first container of cold liquid I could find.

Mr Warboys, eating as ever, regarded me with interest. "What's happened to you?" he wanted to know.

"Burned my hand," I muttered. "No thanks to Major Handyman."

Warboys grunted. "Sounds like him. He likes to put all the new boys through the ringer, he does. What did you do?"

"I yawned."

"Careless," he said. "That's a gift to a man like him, although he don't usually need no excuse. You take what he did to that young Harding and him as innocent as a lamb."

Naturally my interest was roused. "What did he do?"

"Stabbed him in the back of the hand with his fork, because he said he were sniffing. Poor lad had a cold. O'course he were sniffing. But that's Major Handyman for you. He's got funny ways has the Major."

Sadistic would have been the word I would have used. There was nothing in the least bit funny about the Major's malicious acts of violence.

"So he burned you, did he?" Warboys said, picking a lump of something from his yellow teeth, which promptly went back in his mouth for a second chewing. "Still, I wouldn't put my hand in that pot there, if I were you."

I had not given much thought to what it was, other than that it was cold. Now I gave it a closer inspection, I noticed an unpleasant odour rising from the cloudy depths. I drew my hand out and saw pale yellow droplets sparkling on my fingers.

"What is it?" I asked warily.

"Three-day-old pee," said Warboys with a grin. "The laundry uses it when they can't afford bleach for the whites. Swears by it does old Mother Rush. Me and the missus saves it for her."

There are moments in every man's life when the sheer pointlessness of existence strikes him with full force. Standing in the Tankerville's kitchen, with my arm half drenched in stale urine, I realised that such a moment was upon me. Had anyone asked me what was the point of it all, I would have been lost for an answer.

I felt as though I was trapped some bizarre Dickensian parody of a world that I thought I knew and had mistakenly thought I could master. Out beyond the club's main door lay normality, where the food was edible, dogs were not confined to lofts and kitchens were not thought a suitable repository for bowls of human waste.

I was living a nightmare, and the only way to escape it was by my own wits.

With wisdom, perhaps I should have left. In truth, I was so dispirited and pugnacious by equal measure that I stayed to groom a malevolent horse and polish acres of silver plate. I kept my spirits buoyed with the knowledge that Lestrade had something to tell me, something which I hoped fervently would lead to my escape from this place and my self-imposed ordeal.

At a quarter to one, I was ready to go. I returned briefly to my room to collect coat and hat, only to pause on the verge of leaving when I heard the scrape of claws upon the ceiling boards. Then, in an appalling moment of sentimentality, I allowed pity to get the better of me.

Before I had time to consider my actions, I had rescued Toby from his miserable conditions and stowed him under my coat. Only when we were out in the relative safety of the mews did I allow him to see the muted light of the dull winter's day.

What was plainly obvious was that he had never been out before, not since his near drowning in the river. This world was new and fascinating to him, filled with a myriad of sights and smells, all of great wonder to a young dog. His nose was all a-twitch and his great brown eyes were wide with excitement.

The dustbins proved to be of particular interest and he gave the greatest of attention to the brown wrappings from the illicit side of meat that Warboys had smuggled in the night before. While he was thus occupied, I found a length of string and fashioned an impromptu collar and leash.

He stuck in his heels when I tried to make him walk away from the rubbish, and, whining insistently, his gaze turned longingly in the other direction. No doubt he had many places he wished to explore, but his concerns were not mine. I had an appointment to keep and very little time to get there. Accordingly, I scooped Toby up and set out towards Piccadilly.

There is something unreal about moving through a group of people after a period of isolation. One loses the sense of how to negotiate crowded streets with ease and crossing busy roads becomes positively perilous. Pushed and pummelled from every direction, I was forced out from the pavement to avoid a beggar and near collided with a passing hansom, dropping Toby in the process. I had a vague impression of a horse rearing in alarm at a barking dog and a cab pouring foul oaths upon my head. I plucked Toby from beneath the dancing hooves and made for the quieter back streets.

Chance rather than good judgement took me through Wren's solemn church and out into Jermyn Street. All was refreshing familiar. Some little way along was Brompton and Rudge, my tailor, and further still numerous little tobacco shops with aromas enough to occupy both Toby and myself for many a happy hour. I was accustomed to this world, and yet by choice I had become a stranger, a fact that became abundantly clear when I entered the quiet haven of St James's Square.

Tall, stately buildings surrounded me on all sides, and in the heart of the square, naked trees, stripped of summer's splendour, stood behind railings, accessible only to those trusted with the key. Here could one escape the hurly burly of Pall Mall and Regent Street to perambulate in refined respectability and forget the ugliness of life beyond.

The irony was that that world was never far away, present in the unseen armies of servants who toiled to keep their lords and ladies in elegant ignorance. Whether due to my recent experiences or some other insight, where once I would have happily wallowed in the deception, I began to see things differently.

I saw the façade for what it was, as false as my own assumed disguise, for appearances, like a woman's beauty, are only ever surface deep. The tragedies that hid behind those stone-clad walls would one day be my special province, should my fledgling practice ever take flight. The ruined reputation, the stolen gem, the lies and brutality, all this and more I was sure would come to my door. I would dwell amongst the misery of mankind and endeavour to bring what little joy I could back into the lives of the tormented.

It was a bleak thought, to stand in the grey between heaven and hell and act as last resort, too great a burden for a young man in a shabby suit and with a queer-looking dog at heel. Whatever expression such concerns brought to my face, however, was some cause for alarm for the inhabitants of this genteel community. From the curious glances I was earning from passing ladies, barricaded against the cold with fur muffs and heavy shawls, I gathered my presence was causing something of a stir.

With a policeman heading briskly in my direction, I knew that I had dallied long enough. I shook the leash to attract Toby's attention from the close grooming he was giving to certain intimate parts of his anatomy and we made our exit from the square. Passing my brother's rooms in Pall Mall gave me a moment's pause, but knowing he was neither in nor likely to be appreciative of my sudden visit, I pressed on to Trafalgar Square.

The message had not been specific as to exact location so I took up position by one of Landseer's lions from where I had a good prospect of the immediate area and waited for Lestrade to put in an appearance. Above me loomed Nelson on his column, less dignified for the seagull that had settled on his hat and the splattering of droppings down his back. Such is the price of fame and the ultimate fate of those immortalised in bronze.

With the bells of St Martin's-in-the-Fields striking the single hour, I glimpsed a solitary figure heading purposefully in my direction, scattering the flocks of pigeons. Even with his face heavily muffled against the cold, I would have still recognised Lestrade anywhere. I straightened up and waited for him to join me.

"You made it then," said he, his breath clouding on the chill air. "By heavens, you don't look at all well, Mr Holmes."

"I put it down to lack of sleep and a poor diet, Inspector," I replied. "What did you have to tell me?"

"You got my note?"

I did not bother to answer that. Evidently I had or else I should not be here now.

He sniffed and dislodged a dewdrop that had formed on the end of his reddened nose. "I wasn't sure you'd understand the message."

"As messages go, 'we need to talk' seemed self-evident."

He bridled slightly. "No, I mean the time and place. I had to be a bit inventive with that on account of you being…well, in the enemy's camp, so to speak."

"As you can see, I am here."

I did not add that, as ciphers went, it was elementary in the extreme. To what else could 1805 allude but the date of Nelson's naval victory, and the fact that Lestrade had gone to the trouble of enclosing the numbers in a box made the location obvious. Where then but Trafalgar Square? And since the tobacco pouch bore the name of Hobson, who famously only ever gave one choice, his or no other, what other time but one o'clock?

"This yours, is it?" said he, nodding to Toby, who regarded him with lolling tongue and eager eyes.

"He belonged to Michael Harding," I explained. "You don't want a dog, do you, Inspector?"

He shook his head. "Not one that looks like him. By heck, I'd have sooner called it a gargoyle." He chuckled. "The wife would have my guts for garters if I came home with that."

I smiled weakly.

"Now, Mr Holmes, I've got something for you," said Lestrade, drawing several files from within his coat. "For heaven's sake, don't lose them, for they're the only copies we've got."

"What are they?"

"Police files on the Unicorn Man and the chap killed by the ghost."

"_Allegedly_ killed by a ghost," I reminded him, flicking through the host of papers. "And the other gentleman was no more murdered by a rampaging unicorn than Harding was torn apart by a dead leopard."

"Someone with a morbid sense of humour, by all accounts," Lestrade concurred. "Have you made any progress?"

"No," I murmured. "Although I have met a so-called gentleman who I would dearly like to have as a principal suspect. Do you know anything of a Major Handyman?"

Lestrade pursed his lips and considered. "Handyman," he said thoughtfully. "The name doesn't ring a bell. Why, what makes you think he's involved?"

"Because he stabbed Harding in the hand with a fork and burned my hand with a hot coffee pot. He has a nasty streak that I dare say could well turn to murder, given half a chance."

The Inspector's eyes had widened. "Were you seriously hurt, Mr Holmes?"

I shrugged off his concern. "I'll live. Will you see what you can find out about the Major?"

"I'll do what I can, although there's a gentleman due here any minute who can tell you a good deal more. He's the reason I called this meeting. I wanted you to talk to him."

I raised my brows with interest. "Do go on."

"He turned up yesterday evening, said he wanted to speak to someone about Michael Harding's death. Turns out he knows a thing or two about that young man."

"And who is this font of information?"

"A certain Major Prendergast, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army and former member of the Tankerville Club."

* * *

_Ouch! Remedies for burned hands to be sent to Mr Holmes c/o the Tankerville Club._

_Anyone remember Major Prendergast from the canon?_

_Well, let's see what he has to say for himself in Chapter Seven!_


	8. Chapter Seven

_A/N: Everyone give yourself a million imaginary points for correctly identifying Major Prendergast from 'The Five Orange Pips'. Now, let's see what his problem is..._

* * *

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Seven**

Major Prendergast proved to be a middle-aged man with grizzled hair, a bulbous nose and a pronounced limp. He was also deeply disturbed and troubled, as evidenced by the deep-cut lines in his furrowed brow and several new scratches upon the lens of his monocle, the result of recent careless inattention.

For the sake of his nerves as much as our shivering from the cold, we sought sanctuary in a little tearoom in the shadow of Charing Cross Station, where the coffee was weak and the fruit cake gritty. As soon as I was able, I passed my portion down to Toby's waiting mouth and took solace instead in a cigarette.

Not that I needed to worry what our companion thought of my actions. The Major's misery was almost palpable as he sat opposite us with beads of sweat glinting in his beard and moustache, despite the chill of the day which had the rest of us burrowing into our overcoats. From his manner, I should have said that he was anxious to be anywhere but in the presence of a Scotland Yard Inspector and a circumspect young man introduced to him as Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Much to my amusement, Lestrade had hurried over the exact nature of my role in the affair with alacrity. Assisting the police was, I believe, the statement I heard him mutter, which did little to allay the Major's concerns. He took in my dishevelled appearance, cast a disparaging glance at the sad-eyed creature masquerading as a dog that had draped itself over my feet and seemed more disheartened than ever.

However, it was not my place either to instil confidence or dispense sympathy. My only interest was in what he knew about the death of Michael Harding. I urged him to tell his story and be precise as to details.

"Well then, Mr Holmes, I was a member of the Tankerville until little over a month ago," he began uncertainly. "I would be still, except..." He paused. "There was an incident. It was put to me in the strongest terms that I should resign with immediate effect."

"Why?" I asked.

Prendergast shifted uncomfortably in his chair and adjusted his monocle. "I would rather not say."

I knocked the ash of my cigarette onto my saucer and regarded him frankly. "Major, I would not ask unless it was a matter of vital importance to our understanding of recent events. Now, it concerned the playing of cards, did it not?"

The Major stared at me in alarm as his monocle fell from his eye and dangled at his chest. "Yes, that is quite correct. But how did you know about—"

"It is my business to know things," I interjected. "And, from what I have already observed of the conduct of certain members, I can well believe that only the question of a man's integrity at the card table would stir them to such an action."

"Since you know, there is little point in denying it," Prendergast sighed. "Yes, Mr Holmes, it was as you say. I was accused of cheating, a charge of which I was guiltless, but had little chance to refute."

"Quite so. But why against you, Major?"

He tilted his jaw so that his head was held high, as if in defiance of the unpleasant memories my questions were forcing him to relive. "I believe evidence was brought to bear falsely against me because I had voiced concerns about another member."

"Would the member in question be Major Handyman?"

By the time I looked back at him, he had yet to regain his composure from his second surprise of the afternoon at my perceptiveness. His mouth was slightly agape and moving to words that lacked adequate volume.

"You know about him?" he said finally. "How, sir?"

"Mr Holmes had something of an altercation with him this morning," Lestrade said. "Burned his hand with a coffee pot, so I'm told."

This adequately explained my undue reliance on my left hand throughout our meeting. My right lay limply in my lap, throbbing with every pulse of blood that passed through my veins. So far, it had been dipped in stewing urine and rubbed with a fatty mixture of lard and lavender, which, so Mrs Warboys said, would keep the skin supple. Not that I trusted this assertion, for I had as much faith in her remedies as I had in her cooking.

"The man was ever a vicious brute," declared Prendergast. "His exploits in India were notorious. You do know that he was forced to resign his commission?"

Lestrade and I both shook our heads.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice in the manner of one sharing a confidence. "There was some scandal about a private being flogged to death under his command. There was talk that he had carried out the punishment himself."

"Sadly, that does not surprise me," I said. "He threatened to do as much to me."

"Good heavens, Mr Holmes," murmured Lestrade. "You never mentioned this before."

"You didn't ask."

Any comfort he was taking from our progress in the case had promptly evaporated with these few words. Now I had two troubled men to deal with and time was pressing.

"Major, do go on. What exactly were your concerns about Handyman?"

Prendergast sipped nervously at his tea before setting the cup down with an unsteady hand. "It was nothing I could pin down, which is why I never made a formal complaint. Perhaps it would have been better if I had," he added unhappily.

"He would win when you least expected him to do so?"

"Sometimes, usually when we had guests playing."

"Less so other times?"

"No more or no less than a man might expect by the hand of good fortune."

I gave the situation a moment's consideration. "Then you believed that he was cheating unsuspecting visitors to the club. To whom did you confide your suspicions?"

Prendergast seemed flustered by the question. "Oh, a few other fellows."

"Who exactly?"

Still he sought to evade the question.

"Major, it is vital that you tell us."

His small eyes flashed and his shook his head with impatience. "Dash it all, Mr Holmes, you ask too much. Very well, since you insist. I said as much to his face."

"I bet that went down well," Lestrade remarked with a wry chuckle.

"As well as you would expect. I never accused him of cheating as such, although I did say that he seemed to have the luck of the Devil when it came to winning. It was at that point that a terrible change came over him. I have been witness to his moods before, but this was something different. He was near incandescent with rage. Quite a worrying thing to see. Another fellow at our table, Major Stanhope, had to calm him down." A small twitch momentarily creased the corner of his mouth. "Then of course they found the card."

I raised an inquiring brow and waited for him to continue.

"The Ace of Diamonds, under my chair. It wasn't mine, you understand, whatever the others say."

Lestrade tactfully covered whatever expression he was struggling to contain with his tea cup, leaving me to mollify the Major's indignant protestations of innocence.

"I believe you, sir," said I. "What then?"

"There was a good deal of fuss," he went on. "Much ado about nothing, if you ask me. There was nothing to say the card was mine. It could have come from anywhere. The dealer could have dropped it. Anyone could have left it there to incriminate me." The proud eyes lost a little of their fire and the jutting jaw sagged. "After that, the Committee said I should resign. Said that the other members had complained. I was forced out with my reputation in ruins. I remain a marked man until such time as I can clear my name."

"You rely upon your winnings?"

The Major nodded. "I also had hopes of securing a certain lady's hand in marriage. That prospect seems unlikely now. So, you understand that I eagerly accepted the offer that Harding fellow made to me."

"Which was?"

"He came to me about a week ago. Told me he knew what had happened at the club. Well, naturally, I agreed his price without another thought."

"He asked for payment? How much?"

I thought I detected the faintest heightening of colour on the already florid cheeks. "Fifty pounds."

"That is a great deal of money."

"A small price to pay for the restoration of my honour," said Prendergast boldly. "I would have paid him double that if he could have made good on his claim."

I noted his deliberate use of phraseology. The question of what such information was worth to him had not featured in the negotiations between the pair. From this, it could be inferred that the Major had thought he had been getting the better part of the deal, whilst Harding had been too timid or perhaps too noble to ask for more. If the latter, however, why ask at all?

"I'll make the same deal with you, Mr Holmes, if you can find out what Harding knew and clear my name," said he.

I stabbed out my cigarette and shook my head. "Very generous of you, sir, but my concern is to bring to justice the murderers of Michael Harding rather than financial advancement for myself."

"Although I dare say the money would come in useful," said Lestrade, nudging my arm. "Every man has his expenses. Isn't that right, Mr Holmes?"

I had the strongest impression that he wanted me to accept the Major's offer, for what reason I could not fathom. I resented having to put myself out to hire like a hansom cab, but at his urging relented and did my best to reassure the man.

"I will endeavour to throw some light upon this curious set of circumstances, Major Prendergast," I told him. "It would help if you could recall anything Harding said that might aid me in my investigation."

"No, nothing," came his reply, much as I had expected. Harding had played a close game, keeping what he knew to himself until both were ready to make good on their respective sides of the bargain. "He simply said he knew something and I would be hearing from him shortly. The next I knew the fellow was dead."

"Murdered, in fact," I corrected him, a fate that was liable to be in store for me should I make the same mistakes as he had. It was an unsettling notion. As much as I disliked backing down from a challenge, neither was I in any great hurry to go rushing to my own death. Only the foolhardy, the obstinate or the desperate would willingly return to the lion's den, and I was starting to wonder which of those best fitted me.

Since we had gleaned all we could from the Major, there seemed little point in delaying his departure. Lestrade saw him out and settled in a cab, while I was left to ponder the situation.

Undeniably, we had made some progress. I had a suspect and a good motive. What I lacked, however, was proof. A good brief would tear our case to shreds. Even I could see several gaping holes in the argument.

My problem lay with the character of Harding himself. Saint or sinner, I was still undecided. The other members of staff disliked him, a situation best borne when one is privy to some knowledge which negates the need to ingratiate one's self with fellow workers. By all accounts, Harding had never attempted to rub along with the other staff, which suggested he had arrived in the Tankerville's employ with some ulterior motive already in mind. It was therefore fair to say that he had gone with a purpose.

But _what_ purpose, that was the thing. Had he been nothing more than a common blackmailer, ready to take whatever money he could from gullible members and move on? He had tried as much with Major Prendergast, offering to exonerate the man from financial and social ruin. I had to wonder if he had truly known anything or whether his claim was nothing more than an elaborate bluff.

It was becoming evident to me that I needed to know more about the man. His past history might shed some light on that. No doubt the Tankerville had asked for references when he had applied. I would have to rouse Ffarly-Finch into finding them for me. Lestrade too should be able to discover whether the man had a criminal past, under his own name or that of an alias.

Then there was the problem of the other deaths, too improbable to be mere coincidence and yet all seemingly unrelated. It was a complicated business, unnecessarily tangled with too many random skeins that generated a multitude of questions and far too few answers. A clear mind would have been invaluable in penetrating the gloom, but since I was currently lacking in that respect, I was as confused as ever.

I sighed, rubbed tired eyes and turned the cover of the file on the death of the man thrown from a third floor window in Maida Vale by a ghost.

It made for depressing reading. The investigation had been slight and relied heavily on the statements of a number of people living in the house at the time who laid claim to having heard all manner of noises in the dead of night. With the number of reports of rattling chains, unearthly wailings and ghostly manifestations, I had to question why they had chosen to remain in such a place. Cheap lodgings, I supposed, and a desire to get their rent lowered further discount by discouraging other prospective tenants with fantastical tales.

Not unsurprisingly, all had been asleep at the time of the incident. The first anyone knew about the tragedy was when a policeman woke up the landlord in the early hours to inform him that he had a dead man impaled on his front railings. Three storeys up, the window was open of this unfortunate gentleman's room. There followed unanimous agreement that the ghost was responsible. With nothing further to go on, the case was closed and referred to the coroner who recorded a verdict of death by misadventure.

It told me nothing, save that the intelligence and dedication of the local constabulary was seriously in doubt. The dead man, John Sommers, had been a musician with a liking for absinthe and an unhealthy following of creditors. His wife had died some years before so that the identification of his body had had to be performed by his brother-in-law, a young man apprenticed to a printer in Sanderstead. The official report of this was included, and I idly passed over the signature before stopping and returning for a closer inspection.

I almost missed it. Staring back at me was a name I immediately recognised. The brother-in-law had been none other than Michael Harding.

I had my connection between two of the cases. All the same, what did it prove? That the members of the Sommers-Harding family had a penchant for coming to grisly ends? The post mortem report into Sommers's death might indicate that the same people had had a hand in both killings, although it could well be argued that a falling body might be unfortunate enough to end up impaled through both chest and throat on landing by chance, the latter suffering further damage when the constables had hauled the body from the iron railings.

It was, however, mere speculation on my part. There was no suggestion that Sommers had had any link with the Tankerville Club or its members. Maida Vale was a long way from Piccadilly with no reason to support the theory that Harding was killed in pursuit of justice for his sister's husband. I believed otherwise. What else could have a possessed an intelligent young man trained in a good trade to throw away his prospects and enter domestic service?

It was frustrating. All my instincts were one way, while the facts, such as they were, proved nothing. I had a tangible connection and little else. I would have to concentrate my efforts instead on following what I knew for certain about Harding and his discovery of Handyman's cheating at the card table, and hope that the rest fell into place. At least then one member of that unfortunate family would get justice, if not the other.

By the time Lestrade returned, I had finished my coffee and was ready to leave. The bells of St Martin's toiled the half hour, telling me it was time to return to my duties. The Inspector, however, had that dour look of man with a need to talk and I sensed that the result of this would be another financial penalty for my poor time-keeping.

"Well, then, Mr Holmes," said he, "Major Prendergast told a fine tale, wouldn't you say?"

There was that about his tone that lacked conviction. "You think he was lying? For what possible reason?"

Lestrade considered. "Because he _was_ cheating."

"Prendergast?" I shook my head. "What then was the purpose of Harding's visit?"

"Blackmail."

"To what end? The man had already been exposed."

"Unless he knew something else about him. Did you notice how shifty he was? Couldn't sit still half the time and his eyes were all over the place. That's the sign of a guilty conscience in my book. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he had killed Harding."

He sat back in his chair with a smug expression on his face and an expectant look in his eye. It took me a moment to realise that he was waiting for my thoughts on the subject.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but I cannot agree. For a start, how did he gain access to the Tankerville Club after he had been barred?"

"Easy enough to slip past a sleeping doorman."

"Not Mr Bullen. He misses nothing." My morning's interrogation over Lestrade's letter had proved that much. "Besides, I did say that more than one person was involved in Harding's death."

"Maybe Prendergast and Handyman were working together. If you recall, you did put forth the idea about the significance of Harding's body being left at the Tankerville. Looked at like that, it was a warning to deter anyone else attempting to blackmail them."

"But then why has he come to you and implicated both himself and his partner in crime? No, Lestrade, it will not do. I am inclined to believe the Major's story."

Lestrade stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You don't think I should arrest him then?"

"I think you will look most foolish if you do. By his own admission, Prendergast had the most to lose if Harding died before telling him what he knew."

"Ah, Mr Holmes, but you claimed that Harding had been tortured. What if Prendergast got what he wanted and then killed him to keep his mouth shut?"

I sighed. "Surely the point of the exercise was to expose Handyman for the cheat he undoubtedly is. Killing a witness to one's innocence is rather counter-productive, wouldn't you say?"

"Then you think Handyman killed him."

"With accomplices, in all probability, yes, I do."

"In that case, I should arrest him."

"Inspector," I said wearily, "I understand your need for haste in this business, but you seem to be forgetting the question of proof. All we have is hearsay. I have to determine what Harding discovered about the Major and then gather incontrovertible evidence that the knowledge of the one lead to his ultimate demise. A confession would be useful, though unlikely." I paused. "If that was what happened."

Lestrade's expression fell. "You aren't sure?"

I shrugged lightly. "Not entirely. It is one explanation that would fit the facts. Let me provide you with another."

I ran through what I had learned in his absence about Harding's relationship to the dead John Sommers.

"And I take it that you haven't any proof either that Harding was on the trail of his brother-in-law's killers?"

"No, it is a theory of mine. Of course, one does not preclude the other. Equally, we could be barking up the wrong tree entirely."

It was Lestrade's turn to sigh and rub his brow. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear you say that, Mr Holmes," said he heavily.

"The Chief Superintendent still pressing you for results?"

"Not exactly. You've not seen the morning papers, I take it?"

I shook my head. Lestrade fished a well-thumbed copy of _The Morning Post_ from his overcoat and passed it across, indicating with his finger the column for my attention, headed by the unnecessarily dramatic headline of '_Panic in Piccadilly!_' The piece continued in a similarly alarmist manner, clearly written by someone with more imagination than good sense.

" '_Do the forces of darkness stalk the streets?_'," I read out. " _'Are the good people of London to be murdered in their beds by ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?'_ " I put the paper down. "How very amusing. How do they think these things up?"

Lestrade managed a weak smile. "Read on. It gets worse."

" '_Inspector Lestrade, who investigated the death of the man killed by a unicorn last year, has ordered a post mortem on a stuffed leopard, believed to have savaged to death a steward at the Tankerville Club. With the confirmation that the beast was long since deceased, it must be supposed that unearthly powers raised it to life to commit this atrocity'. _"

I tutted, as further down, the writer went on to report the sighting of a vampire by a woman in Ealing and the claims of a number of people in Norwood that the Devil himself had galloped across their rooftops, leaving his hoof prints in the snow.

"What nonsense," said I. "The result of some Grub Street hack filling column space with idle tittle tattle of the worst kind. You should pursue a claim of libel against this rag for false misrepresentation, Inspector."

"That costs money, Mr Holmes. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. The damage has been done." He sniffed. "Where's Rutland?"

Abrupt and irrelevant changes in conversation annoy me, particular in this instance where Lestrade seemed to be positively rambling. "What the devil does Rutland have to do with anything?" I said testily.

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Because that's where I'm being sent."

I stared at him. "You've been taken off the Harding case?"

"As of this morning, after the Chief Super read that article, yes. I did say they were looking for a scapegoat and he's never liked me."

"After only a day? Isn't that a little precipitate?"

"It's long enough. Anyhow, it seems there's a vacancy for an Inspector with the Rutland Constabulary in Oakham. I'm to start Monday morning."

He did not need to elaborate nor was I heartless enough to press him for details. His brief tenure at Scotland Yard had ended with demotion to the provinces, with the added humiliation of being shuffled away to one of the smallest police forces in England. I wondered what his reaction had been when his superior had presented him with the news. I should have raged against the injustice of it, but there we differ.

Enough time had passed for the mantle of studied resignation to settle about his shoulders, and I suspected he had not railed too vigorously against his fate least demotion be exchanged for unemployment. A man may suffer a thousand indignities where the continued well being of his family is concerned, and as good a life is to be had in rural Rutland as in foggy London.

I offered no expression of sympathy, for I sensed that he wanted that less than some assurance that we still had time to turn our fortunes around. No situation is ever entirely irredeemable and the Inspector did not strike me as a man to give up so easily, whatever his outward manner might suggest. It was commendable, but I could foresee certain practical difficulties impeding our progress.

"Who has taken over the Tankerville investigation?" I asked.

Lestrade grimaced. "They've given it to a new fellow. Only been in the job a week and already he's three cases under his belt. Apple of the Chief Super's eye by all accounts. Worked his way up through the ranks with unseemly haste, if you get my meaning."

"Does this paragon have a name?"

"Tobias Gregson." He hesitated long enough for a smile to quirk one corner of his mouth. "He gets results. Not always the right one, mind you, but a quick end to this business is what they're looking for. Knowing him, he's probably made an arrest already."

The sudden glint in his eye alerted me that all was not as it should be. "You haven't told him about Major Prendergast, have you?"

The smile broadened. "He'll have it eventually, when I turn in my final report."

I approved, especially as I found myself starting to warm to his latent devious streak. "And what of me?"

"What of you, Mr Holmes?"

"Am I under any obligation to tell this Gregson fellow what I learn?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Why ever should you? As I understand it, you've accepted a retainer from Major Prendergast to look into his affairs. You've no obligations to the official investigation."

I stared at him. Then I laughed.

This unexpected stroke was positively inspired. Where I had thought him little more than a prosaic jobsworth, I was now being treated to flashes of genius amidst the gloom of mediocrity. I saw that I was going to have to adjust my impression of the man.

"You know, Inspector," I remarked, "I was thinking what a waste it would be if you were sent to Rutland."

He nodded glumly. "I'm not altogether sure the wife would be happy about it either."

"Well, then, we have two and half days to avert this crisis, more than enough time I should say. If I need to contact you, where will I find you?"

He tore a scrap from the newspaper and scrawled several lines on it. "My home address. Any message will get to me there. At least until Sunday evening."

I rose to my feet, roused Toby from his slumbers and prepared to leave. "I hope to have news for you before then."

"Just one thing, Mr Holmes," said he, forcing me to turn back. "You will be careful, won't you? Don't do anything rash and get yourself killed. Fifty pounds isn't worth a man's life."

"Some value it less than that, Inspector," I replied. "Rest assured, I will take no action without informing you. After all, we can't let this Gregson take the lion's share of the credit, can we?"

* * *

_Deadlines – don't you just hate them?_

_So, don't waste time chatting, Mr Holmes, hurry on to Chapter Eight!_


	9. Chapter Eight

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Eight**

We parted outside the tearooms beneath cloud-troubled skies, Lestrade to Scotland Yard to clear out his desk in anticipation of his posting to the north, me back to the Tankerville Club to work in drudgery and solve an increasingly tangled web of murder and intrigue. I was more aware than ever, now faced with the Inspector's imminent demotion, that the stakes of the affair had been raised considerably for both of us.

I had grown used to having an official police contact. Lestrade was hard-working and tolerable, if woefully lacking in that imagination so necessary to my art. He possessed qualities, however, with which one could work. He had an innate instinct for survival that I found laudable and sufficient intelligence to carry him through, given half a chance. More than that, I liked the sound of his replacement even less. Better the devil you know, as the saying goes.

I hurried back along Piccadilly, knowing I was already late and liable to feel the rough edge of Mr Fraiser's tongue for the second time that day. With Toby trotting along beside me, we skirted the buildings of the Royal Academy and slipped down the mews that served the rear of the Tankerville. I paused for breath beside the heap of waste that the kitchen produced and suddenly the leash was wrenched from my hand. Toby was off, head down, tail wagging, pursuing the lead he had been keen to follow earlier.

The hard, practical side of my nature told me to leave him, that I could not risk being so late that instant dismissal would be my reward. After all, he was not mine and I had more pressing considerations than the fate of one ugly pup in a city where strays were two a penny and died in their hundreds for the want of a good meal and a warm hearth.

From the grey skies, a light dusting of snow began to fall, peppering my lashes with dainty white flakes. I thought of Toby that night, wandering the streets, cold, lost and alone. I thought of him frozen to death come the morning, ignored by passers-by, left for the road sweepers to toss into their carts and deposit at the nearest glue factory for a few paltry pennies.

I really had no choice. I threw caution to the wind and ran after him.

Call it foolishness to risk so much for so little, but I flatter myself that I had sensed a deeper purpose to the dog's bid for freedom. The more I followed him, the more I realised that this was no random route, but one set by another the night before, when the mysterious man had delivered Mr Warboys's cheap cut of meat. Toby had picked up the scent from the bloodied brown wrapping papers and was following it to its source.

Whilst I was delighted by his desire to help, his timing could have been better. I could have wished too for a more attentive dog, one that did not streak out into the crowded thoroughfare of Regent's Street without a thought to his safety. A kindly providence must have been watching over him that afternoon for how he made it unscathed to the other side, I shall never know. I caught myself wincing as his brown-and-white shape darted between the legs of startled horses and whisked out of the way of heavy wheels with a whisker to spare.

Reach the other side of the road, he did, however, and then was gone into the backstreets of Soho. My own progress was somewhat impeded by goods wagons and irate cabmen, who roundly cursed both myself, my ancestors and my descendants for allowing a deranged animal like that to run unguarded out into the traffic. I made my apologies and hurried on.

Away from the smart shop fronts and swept streets, I descended into a shabbier world, where tumble-down buildings leaned like drunken revellers up against each other for support. Remove the wrong wall, and the whole lot would fall down. Washing, stiff with snow, hung from the windows of garrets, tended by foul-mouthed women clad in the same drab uniform of dirty greys and browns. Here and there, small taverns crowded as many patrons inside as they could, leeching the stupefying twin odours of stale tobacco and strong beer into the street.

This was not the place for a young gentleman. Even Henry Holmes, wretch that he was, soon found himself attracting attention from gin-soaked woman and hungry-eyed children. Word was spreading about a stranger in their world, come with one of two purposes: because he had money to spend or trouble to make. Either was enough to warrant a wire slipped around the neck and a swift garrotting to liberate a fool from his spare change.

I pressed on, came to a crossroads intersecting with Groper's Lane and had to stop. Toby was nowhere to be seen. I took several heaving breaths and cast about for his footprints. The snow was already turning to rain and any traces left by the dog were fast being washed away. I had lost him, and I was not altogether sure that I quite knew where I was either.

While I took a moment to consider my position, I became aware that I was not alone. Two women, clad in faded dresses and drooping feathers, with their hems raised high enough to show glimpses of their ankles, were regarding me with interest.

"Looking for a good time, dearie?" said one, a gap-tooth woman with untidy brown hair that was struggling to escape from beneath her black felt hat.

"No," I replied, somewhat breathlessly. "I'm looking for a dog."

She pulled a face. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

"'Ere, he means that brown an'white fing what tried to pee up your leg, Mabel," said her companion, red-cheeked from bitter cold and worn through years of deprivation. "We saw the scruffy little ha'path run through 'ere not a minute ago, Mister. Heading for old man Daniels's place he were. He belong to you?"

"Yes, he does," I replied. "Daniels is where?"

"Down Slaughter Row. Can't miss it. Follow your nose."

"Thank you, Miss."

She smiled almost coyly. "Cor blimey, ain't never had no one call me 'Miss' afore. Makes me feel like a right proper lady. I bet you're a proper gent an' all, not like them's that usually comes round 'ere, wanting it fer nuffin."

On that note, I beat a hasty retreat. I followed Toby's lead down Slaughter Row and it was not long before the foetid smell of old blood and excreta rose up to catch in my throat and make me want to gag. A pair of open gates lay up ahead and from within came the sound of a dog barking and a man shouting.

I dashed through the gates and into a small courtyard, where I found Toby with his teeth attached to the trouser leg of a man who was trying to deal him a deathly blow with a meat cleaver. The weapon swiped downwards, at the furthermost reach of its arc clipping the end of the dog's tail and releasing a spray of blood. Toby promptly withdrew and ran whining to me.

Now the man with the cleaver and a murderous glint in his eye rounded on me. "Is that your accursed dog?" he demanded, spewing globules of spittle in my direction as he spoke.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then you best gets him out o'ere afore I puts an end to his infernal yapping once and fer all," said he. "Folk like you shouldn't be allowed no animals if'en you can't control 'em."

With a wave of his cleaver at us to make his point, he grunted and returned to his work. Now the danger to both of us had passed, I had a chance to take stock of the place where Toby had led me.

The road had been well named. Toby's nose had followed a trail from the Tankerville to a slaughterhouse. A carcase was hanging by trussed feet from a butcher's hook in a low shed, where several men were busy stripping the hide from the animal. Another sat prising horseshoes from severed hooves with a pair of pliers, making a careful collection of metal and nails for reuse.

The cobbles were wet and shiny with blood, so that the fallen snow had created red slush in the gutters. Piles of offal steamed in the cold air where they had been pulled from the guts of the creature, the stink mingling with urine to create a sickening miasma. In summer, this place must be a magnet for every fly in the area, and a hardship for the neighbours, whose faces I could glimpse pressed up against grimy windows in the buildings surrounding the yard on every side.

I had seen enough. I wrapped a handkerchief around Toby's bleeding tail and stowed the dog under my arm. As much as I appreciated his initiative, he had only confirmed what I had deduced previously, that Mr Warboys was buying inferior meat direct from the slaughterers, thus shaving pennies from the butcher's bill. No doubt interesting, and something to mention to the Club's Committee, but of little help to me in solving the slaying of Michael Harding. As a motive for murder, it was slim, although I knew of cases where men had been killed for much less.

More worrying was the thought that occurred to me halfway up Slaughter Row. I recalled now that I had seen no sign of sheep or cattle. I had my answer as to why the mutton had tasted strange. My stomach churned and revolted.

I took a moment to indulge in a series of dry retches that served only to strain my insides, and then pulled myself together and headed back to the Tankerville. Small wonder that Harding had declared himself a vegetarian. Until it could be proved that the supplies were coming from a reputable butcher, I might forgo meat myself.

By now, I was half an hour late. This was grounds enough for the head steward to dismiss me on the spot and, without Lestrade's influence over the Head of the Club's Committee, I would have not recourse to protest. I sensed, much to my chagrin, that grovelling would have to be in order. It was not a decision I took lightly nor one that sat well with my prouder nature, yet clearly there was much more at stake. The sooner I got to the bottom of this business, I could set objectionable obeisance aside. I only hoped I could be convincing in my feigned sincerity.

As it transpired, I was to be delayed still further. There was a rumpus up ahead involving a constable, an elderly gentleman and a gang of small ragamuffin boys, one of which the policeman held by the arm and who was fighting for all he was worth. It was not my place to interfere, but even I could see that the smallest boy, who had his back to me, had a leather pouch that clearly did not belong to him stuffed down the waistband of his trousers. I did not need to hear the gentleman's voluble complaints that he had been relieved of his money to know a theft had taken place and exactly who the culprits were.

What swayed me was the constable's talk of taking the boy into custody and charging him. The child appeared to be above the age of responsibility, making it likely that he would be spending time in prison as a result. From the look of him, I could not help feeling that a decent meal and a stout pair of shoes might be of more benefit than rubbing shoulders with hardened inmates who would like as not teach him a hundred ways into villainy and set him up with a lifetime of crime.

A social conscience is a serious handicap to a man trying to maintain professional distance. That, and the appealing eyes of a dog that seemed to have the uncanny knack of reading my innermost thoughts, proved to be my undoing. I was fast becoming like Harding, the gallant rescuer of desperate causes, himself perhaps the most desperate of all.

At any rate, I could not simply pass by. I crept up behind the youngest child, plucked the pouch from him and advanced towards the constable.

"Is this what the gentleman lost?" I said innocently. "I found it over there by the side of the pavement."

"'Pon my word," said he. "It is indeed. Why, I must have dropped it when I took out my handkerchief. Constable, release the boy. All is well, as you can see. I have made a terrible mistake."

He was decent enough to admit to his error, although the policemen seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold on the child. I sensed that he realised there was more to this than met the eye, but since no harm had been done, he could not detain the culprit any longer.

"Very well, sir," said he. "Now, son, you be on your way and mind I don't catch you around here again."

"You ain't got nuffin' on me, copper," said the lad, in those manner of those east of the city who insist on clipping their words and mangling their vowels in the most appalling fashion. "I ain't done nuffin'."

"Oh, so you ain't done nothing, eh?" said the constable. "Then you must have done something, by your own admission."

"'Ere, wos he talkin' about? I jus' told you, gov, I ain't done nuffin'."

The constable sighed. A discussion of semantics was lost on this lad. "Get going, you little varmint, and take your thieving pals with you," said he, with a dismissive wave of his hand. The group scampered away, laughing merrily. "You've not done them any favours, you know," he confided to me. "Just a matter of time with children like that. Got the criminal strain in them, you see."

"Everyone deserves a chance, constable," I returned.

He raised his eyebrows dubiously. "We'll see," said he. "Just a matter of time."

With that, he strolled away, whistling to himself. I dived into the back roads behind Piccadilly and weaved my way through a maze of mews and alleys. A few yards from the rear entrance of the Tankerville, I had the keenest impression that I was being followed. Twice, I looked round and twice saw nothing. The third time I ducked into a doorway and was able to leap out on my pursuers. A gaggle of six snot-nosed, ragged children grinned back at me, led by the elder boy who had been detained earlier by the policemen.

"Yes?" I said. "What do you want?"

To give him his due, the boy did not want for pluck. He faced me with a temerity and boldness of eye that I should have been reluctant to show to an adult at his age.

"Why d'you do it?" he wanted to know.

"Do what?"

"Give that old geezer back 'is money. That was ours, was that. We found it. Granted, it was still in 'is pocket at the time, but finders keepers. You know 'ow it is, governor."

"And if that constable had found it on you, young man, you would have been hauled before a magistrate before your feet touched the ground."

He grinned. "Can't. I'm too young."

"How are old you?"

"Six," he said without hesitation.

This I doubted. I should have placed his age at around eight or nine. "When were you born?"

"In the summertime."

"Cheek will not get you very far in a court of law. Now go home, all of you, and keep out of trouble."

The lad shuffled his feet and kicked a rotten apple against the wall. "We would an' all, but it's like this. Seeing as 'ow you lost us our money, me and the lads fink you should stump up fer it."

"And why should I do that?"

The cherubic face became positively demonic. "'Cos we seen you coming out Soho where there's all them pretty lasses. Now, what's your missus gonna say 'bout that?"

I could scarce believe my ears. This child, this waif of the streets, was threatening me with blackmail. "She'll say nothing," I retorted. "I am not married."

"Your employer then," the boy pressed. "He know what you gets up to in your free time, Mister?"

The group giggled and I noticed several knowing nudges pass between the younger children.

"Why aren't you at school?"

"Well, we would be, like, but the teacher's got the guts ache and didn't come in today."

Again, I had my doubts as to whether this child had ever set foot inside a classroom. What learning he had was from the streets, a poor use of the fierce intelligence which I suspected beat within this grimy rascal.

"Does your father know what you get up to?" I asked.

"Shouldn't fink so. He up and died last winter. Our old ma followed 'im two months back, 'er and the babe. The old man she took up with didn't want us round so we live with me grandma. And what with 'er chest being dicky this time o'year, she needs 'er grub, so we can't go back empty 'anded, can we, gov?"

"We?" I queried, glancing over the disparate group. "What, all of you live with her?"

"Yeah. The little'un, he's at home, but the rest of us have to work, like, to bring in the bread or else we don't eat. These here are me bruthers: Billy, Freddy, Tommy, Frankie, Bertie—"

I held up my hand for silence. It was at that point I gave up trying to put faces to names. Over the years, as the older brother left and the next stepped into his shoes, I invariably referred to the leader of this rag-tag group by their common surname. Thus began a long association with a family who would prove to be invaluable to my investigations, when I could keep them on the straight and narrow.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Wiggins, gov. Joey Wiggins."

"Wiggins it is then," said I. "Now, young master Wiggins, what say you earn a decent wage for a good day's work, instead of resorting to thievery and extortion?"

"What, working for you, like?"

"Yes, me. I'm a private consulting detective."

"And you're on a case? Cor, stone the bleedin' crows! I knew you weren't no servant. I said so, didn't I, lads?"

The other boys made noises of agreement.

"So what is it you want us to do?"

I had been toying with the idea of following Major Handyman myself to see where he went in his hours away from the club, but since I had at my disposal a gang of experts, it would be a waste not to make use of their talents.

"There's a man, who leaves this club riding a big white horse," I explained. "I want you to follow him and tell me where he goes. Also, I might need you to run a few errands, messages and the like. Will you do it?"

In a city where trade was king, everything could be had at the right price, even the hire of a group of urchins. My suspicions about the boy's brains were confirmed when he proved to be a most adept haggler.

"Half a crown, up front, and that's a day for me and me bruthers."

"Too much," said I. "A farthing."

"'Ave an 'eart, gov. A two bob bit."

"A shilling."

"Done," said Wiggins. "You want us to hang around 'ere and watch what the kitchen maids gets up to an' all? I bets there's all sorts o'fiddles goes on at a place like this."

I hoped there was no ulterior motive to his suggestion, but it seemed sound enough. I agreed to this proposal and soon found myself parted from my money, with only assurances that they would do as I asked and report back with their findings. As I say, I hoped, although these seemed slim enough as I watched them dance away down the alley bearing their shilling aloft.

By now, I was irredeemably late. I stowed Toby in an empty stable until it was safe to return for him and tried to creep unnoticed into the kitchen. Unfortunately for me, I walked straight into Mr Fraiser coming out with a weeping Mrs Warboys on his arm.

"So, you've turned up, have you?" said he, gruffly. "Where have you been?"

I gestured vaguely to the club to give the impression that I had been hard at work inside. Mr Fraiser, however, seemed to have other things on his mind.

"Well, now you're here, you might as well go in. They'll be wanting to see you."

"Who?"

He grimaced. "The police. There's a new Inspector on the case of that dead fellow, Harding. A right rum'un and no doubt about it. He's only gone and arrested Mr Warboys."

"Arrested Mr..." I hesitated. "For killing Harding?"

Mrs Warboys let out a wail and Mr Fraiser patted her arm consolingly. "There, there," said he. "It's all a terrible mistake. Well, lad, what are you waiting for? In you go, and mind what you say, or he'll be clapping you in irons as well."

"He wants to speak to me?" I queried. "But I wasn't here when Harding died."

"I don't know about that, but he asked for you by name."

This was troublesome news. This new Inspector could be none other than the Gregson whom Lestrade had told me about. I wondered if this was a chance request, that he was merely being thorough, or if he knew the real reason for my being here. There was only one way to find out. I pushed open the door of the kitchen and entered.

At the head of the table sat a solid flaxen-haired man with an open countenance and expressive light-blue eyes, as sharp and hard as ice. He looked up from the notes he was making and smiled cat-like when he saw me.

"Ah," said he, lounging back in his chair and fold his hands before him. "Good. I've been waiting to see you. Pull up a chair and take a seat."

"I'm not sure what you expect me to tell you, Inspector," I replied. "I was not present at the Tankerville when Michael Harding was killed."

"I know," said Gregson. "What interests me is what you're doing here, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

_Gah, busted! Lestrade told him Gregson got quick results, but has he got the right man?_

_Oh, dear, Mr Holmes, I think you're in for a hard time in Chapter Nine!_


	10. Chapter Nine

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Nine**

I must confess that Gregson's use of my real name provoked a certain measure of unease within me. He knew, evidently, who I was, but his question suggested that he was not altogether sure of my purpose. I gathered I was to be interrogated on this point, and my secrets hauled from me. I was equally determined that he would learn nothing from me that would place him ahead of either myself or Lestrade in the course of this investigation.

For now, the man was grinning like a cat about to pounce on a cornered mouse. He was far too confident for someone who was fishing for information. Perhaps that was his usual manner in dealing with miscreants; even so, it would have little impact on me. I took a seat opposite a dull-eyed, fleshy-faced constable, the only other occupant of the room, and waited for the game of wits to begin.

"You don't deny that is your name then?" Gregson said, almost affably, as though we were old friends, debating the ways of the world over tea and cake.

"I deny nothing that is true," I replied.

"And yet the other members of staff seem to think you're some fellow by the name of Henry Holmes. Would you care to explain that, sir?"

Two level stares were directed at me, unwavering enough to make me feel sufficiently uncomfortable. Involuntarily, I adopted the defensive pose of folding my arms across my chest. Gregson's grin broadened when he noted my reaction to his questioning and I gathered that my position had been irretrievably compromised.

"Would you like to hear what I think?" said he smoothly.

"I dare say it would be mildly amusing."

The glint softened in his eyes. "And I dare say it would be even more amusing if I had you arrested. How about that?"

"On what charge?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something. Stealing ladies' smalls from washing lines. How does that sound, Mr Holmes?"

Actually, it sounded quite appalling. I was inclined to believe that the Inspector did not speak in jest. If he had arrested Mr Warboys based on what I supposed to be the slimmest of evidence, I was sure he would have no trouble making such a charge credible where I was concerned. Truth would not matter, for the newspapers would make much of it and not bother with a formal apology when I was exonerated. Who then would come to my poor practice? And what on earth would my brother have to say about it?

"Pray, Inspector, do enlighten me on this point," I said, moderating my manner. "How _did_ you know my name?"

"Well, now," said he, rolling the words around his mouth like a cow chewing on the cud, "I'm a man who notices things. Isn't that right, Constable Fowler?"

"Yes, sir. You notice things."

The reply was flat, utterly lacking in any trace of emotion. Nor had the constable's face altered from the stiff, flabby-jowled expression I had observed when I had entered. Either he was the most indifferent man I had ever encountered or he had perfected the art of insolence whilst keeping his superior ignorant. I suspected the latter, although there was no spark in his eyes which might suggest the workings of a keen mind behind them. Perhaps he had simply seen too much and heard too much to be anything other than bored. If so, he had my sympathy. With the boorish Gregson as a superior, I was sure I too would have been ground down in no time at all.

"I noticed something about _you_, Mr Holmes," Gregson went on. "Your name."

If he was trying to adopt an air of intelligence, then he was failing miserably, for I knew no more now than I did a moment ago.

"My name?" I queried. "Which told you what exactly?"

"It told me not to trust to coincidences, especially where that blunderer, Lestrade, is concerned. Ah, I see you do know him."

This was a ruse to trap me, for I knew full well that neither my movements nor expression had betrayed me in the slightest.

"And what do you infer from that?" I asked.

He rubbed a hand across his chin. "What no one can work out down at the Yard is how a raving idiot like Lestrade managed to solve the Music Hall murders. Now, one of the constables on the case said there was a young man at the Hoxton Hippodrome who had plenty to say for himself and who they thought was behind it all for a while. So, I had a look at the official file and guess whose name I find?"

"Mine," I said, regretting now that I had not had the foresight to use an alias on that occasion.

"Quite so. As I said, Mr Holmes, I notice things. So when I came here and found that there was another Mr Holmes who had stepped into the dead man's shoes before they'd even had a chance to cool off, I knew there was something fishy going on. Didn't I say so, constable?"

"Yes, sir. Something fishy, you said."

I glanced at the constable. His expression was as emotionless as ever and I had yet to see him blink. This, coupled with the wealth of information at Gregson's disposal, awoke an unfamiliar feeling of disquiet that was positively unnerving. What Lestrade had neglected to tell me about the Inspector was that he was not lacking in brains. Through observation, he had deduced a connection between us, one that was going to make my life uncomfortable and my position untenable.

"So," Gregson continued, "I had my suspicions. Then, when you came walking in just now and matched the description of the other fellow so closely, I took a gamble. And I was right, wasn't I, constable?"

"Yes, sir. You were."

Gregson leaned across the table. "Now, I put it to you, Mr Holmes, that you're working for Lestrade. Am I right?"

I sniffed and refused to be intimidated. Lestrade, whatever his deficiencies, had seen to it that I did not have to lie. "Actually, no, Inspector, I am not."

His gaze narrowed. "What?"

"I accepted a retainer from a client to look into certain of his affairs concerning the Tankerville Club."

"I see." Gregson cleared his throat. "The name of this gentleman."

"I am not at liberty to say. It would be unconscionable to betray a client's confidence."

"Oh, unconscionable, you say? We've not had the pleasure of hearing that word before, have we, constable?"

"No, sir. We haven't."

"How unconscionable would it be if I had you put away for a goodly stretch, Mr Holmes, for refusing to co-operate with an official investigation?"

I kept my counsel. Gregson sat back in his chair with pursed lips.

"You know, our Chief Superintendent is a funny man. Isn't he, constable?"

"Yes, sir. Dead hilarious he is."

Gregson gave him a curious glance. "No, I meant funny in his way of thinking. He's got this dislike of amateurs, you see, Mr Holmes. Doesn't like them interfering. He says if they want to play at police work, why don't they sign up and find out what it's really like, instead of dabbling around the edges? Is that what you do, Mr Holmes? Do you dabble?"

I would have disputed such a claim, but everything is relative. I had few cases to my name and limited recognition. To an outsider, I might indeed appear a dabbler, although incipient consulting detective would have been my preferred choice.

"I attempt to shed light on those mysteries which confuse and perplex the common man," I replied.

Gregson's brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I sighed and wondered if the man was being deliberately obtuse. If all my encounters with the Metropolitan Police were going to follow this path, I could foresee many hours wasted in explanation.

"People come to me with their problems, and I try to help them out."

"Who were you helping at the Hoxton Hippodrome?"

"A friend of mine. Mr Horace Merrivale."

"He can confirm this, I suppose?"

"I doubt it. He's out of the country, I believe. He sings."

"What, comic songs and the like?"

"No, opera. He's a _basso profundo_."

"So you weren't working for Lestrade?"

"No, Inspector. Our paths happened to cross."

"Quite a coincidence that it should happen again here."

I held his gaze. "Yes," I agreed. "But no more than that."

He shrugged. "Well, I'm a simple man. Ain't that right, constable?"

"Yes, sir. Very simple."

"And I don't like coincidences. Things happen because people make them happen. Then when it doesn't turn out the way they planned, they blame it on coincidence."

I said nothing, taking the view that it is wiser to stay silent and be thought a fool than to argue with one and confirm it.

"So, based on that belief, I had a word with old Ffarly-Finch, head of this gaff, and you know what he said? Tell him, constable."

"He said the grouse shooting was very good last year."

Gregson waved an impatient hand. "No, no, constable, about Mr Holmes here."

Constable Fowler drew out a pocket book and took his time thumbing through the pages before he reached the relevant passage. "He said that Inspector Lestrade had told him to take Mr Holmes on in a domestic capacity to further his investigation into the death of Michael Harding."

The predatory grin had returned to the Inspector's face. "Would you care to revise your earlier statement, Mr Holmes?"

There is an art to a good lie. Generally speaking, the nearer they fall to the truth, the more successful they are likely to be. It also spares one the trouble of having to remember some elaborate fabrication for future reference, something to be recommended when one has a bad memory or has other things to worry about.

In my case, since Gregson knew, it would be hard to deny it. I had a sense too that his ultimate aim was to trump his rival at Scotland Yard by capitalising on this information. I decided to test the waters.

"What is you want, Inspector?" I asked.

"Promotion. I have a fancy to be Chief Inspector before I'm forty."

"A laudable ambition. What does that have to do with me?"

He took a sizable handkerchief out of his pocket and blew loudly into it. "The way I see it," said he, carefully wiping each nostril in turn. "I have two options here. I report Lestrade to the Chief Super for taking the credit for a case that he couldn't have solved in a month of Sundays and he gets booted out of the Force. The Rutland Constabulary are relieved the burden of having to put up with an ignorant oaf like him and you'd get the recognition you deserve."

"Kind of you," I said tersely.

"It's an ill wind that doesn't blow someone some good, Mr Holmes. On the other hand…" He paused and I saw that assured gleam return to his thoughtful eyes. "I could say nothing about your alliance. Lestrade goes off to Rutland and we come to an understanding. I'm not so proud that I wouldn't consider a little unofficial help from time to time. Well, Mr Holmes, which option do you prefer?"

There really was no choice. Public recognition would be useful, but not at the expense of a hard-working family man with another child on the way. As for allying myself with Gregson, the idea had little appeal. I wondered if Lestrade knew exactly how ruthless the man was. With the blood still dripping from the axe blow on his rival, he was already swooping in to secure an advantage. And he had the bare-faced gall to suggest that the decision was mine.

If this was how he wanted to play the game, the least I could do was to oblige. By Sunday, we know who had won or lost. If we had won, Lestrade would have to deal with Gregson in his own way. If we lost, at least the Inspector would still be in paid employment and his family would not starve.

"I believe I prefer the second option," I said at last.

"You won't regret it, Mr Holmes. I admire loyalty, really I do. But there's loyalty and then there's stupidity. You've confirmed what I suspected about you all along, that you're a clever young man, who knows when to back the favourite."

I ground my teeth at his patronising attitude and fought to contain any visible annoyance.

"No doubt you'll be wanting to remain in service here on behalf of your 'client'," the Inspector went on.

I nodded.

"You can stay, I've no objections. I'll even put in a good word for you with old Ffarly-Finch. Call it a favour."

I have always disliked the notion of anyone doing me a favour. The problem with it is that one never knows when the debt will be called upon to be repaid. From Gregson's manner, I gathered that his good turn was going to cost me dear in the future.

"Well, I think that's our business concluded here," said he, rising to his feet. "Come along, constable, we've still got to interview the suspect at the station before we can go home tonight."

"This suspect would be Mr Warboys?" I asked. "Why did you arrest him for the murder, Inspector?"

"Because he did it, Mr Holmes. It seems he's been up to no good and Harding found out. On the day of his death, he had words with Warboys. Told him to clean up his act or he'd be telling the Club's Committee."

"Warboys confessed to killing Harding?"

Gregson shook his head. "Denied it, flat out, but then they all do that. Didn't fool me for a minute. I've got this nose for troublemakers, you see, and when the Chief Super said I was to make a quick arrest, that's what I did. The man's guilt is as plain as a pikestaff. He was buying under-the-counter meat."

I nodded. Thanks to Toby, I would not have to embarrass myself in front of the Inspector with my ignorance. "Horsemeat in fact, which he was passing off as mutton."

I was sure that Gregson's face blanched. "Horsemeat, you say? All he told us was that he was buying meat on the cheap."

"Very cheap no doubt."

"Well, that's something to be going on for now. I don't suppose you know where he was getting it from?"

"Daniels in Soho. Slaughter Row."

"Make a note of that, constable," said Gregson. "Well, Mr Holmes, you've been fair with me about this business. I'll take that as a sign of good faith between us."

"Thank you, Inspector."

"Not so fast, young man. I want your assurance that nothing we've discussed this afternoon gets back to Lestrade."

Now that was a telling remark. It suggested that for all Gregson's confidence about the ousting of his rival, even at this late juncture he was aware that Lestrade could yet undermine him. With that in mind, it was no great hardship to agree to these terms. I would not tell Lestrade, not because I wished to keep the news to myself, but because there was nothing of substance to tell him. He had predicted that Gregson would make a swift arrest and he had. Neither of us was obliged to inform him that he had the wrong man under lock and key.

In fact, _not_ telling him was to our advantage. Hopefully, with the pressure removed with the closure of the official police investigation, the real culprit would relax his guard enough to make a mistake. All we had to hope was that he did it before Sunday evening.

For the present, I had to face the curiosity of the other members of staff. Gregson and the constable departed, leaving me the subject of some interest as to what had necessitated such a long interview. Fortunately, I was spared another interrogation by the timely intervention of Mr Fraiser, who had not forgotten that I had returned late to my duties. The punishment for my tardiness, so he said, would be night duty.

Compared to polishing acres of hard wood floor, the prospect of sitting up all night was something of a relief. I would have time to think and time to ferret out the Tankerville's secrets undisturbed. Even better, it meant that I was excused to fortify myself with a few hours' sleep before I began my evening duties. As punishments went, I counted myself lucky that it had not been much worse.

Before the head steward could change his mind, I gathered up Toby, salvaged some scraps from the waste for his supper and made myself scarce. Up in my room, I left the dog to occupy himself with several large bones and settled myself on the bed to peruse the other file that Lestrade had given me on the man allegedly killed by a unicorn and dumped on the Thames foreshore.

Try as I might, an obvious link between the death of this man, Peter Fanshawe, and the other killings eluded me. His occupation was listed as craftsman, a designation which could cover a multitude of trades, his home had been a garret above a stew-pot in Southwark and his given age was forty-seven. No connection with the Tankerville or any suggestion that his trade, whatever it had been, had brought him into contact with any of the members. The official investigation into his death stated that he had died from impalement on a long spiral horn, from a species of whale known as the narwhal. At least that ended the speculation over mythical beasts running loose about the capital.

Slightly more puzzling was the coroner's statement that Fanshawe must have fallen in the river and fallen foul of an aggressive whale. I tried to think of time when I had ever seen such a creature in the Thames. Never, in fact. Fish were rare enough, and the sighting of a whale would have been a remarkable sight indeed. It would have been laughable were I not reading about the circumstances of a man's death.

The best I could make of it was that the club's Trophy Room boasted several narwhal horns, one of which might or might not have been used to commit the bloody deed. It was a long shot to say the least. With my vision blurred and my eyes half closed, I resolved to take my rest and investigate later whether there were any gaps on the wall left by a purloined horn. For now, I gave in to the irresistible lure of sleep and very soon was lost to the world.

My dreams were inhabited with constables and ghosts and rivers of blood flowing across cobbled stones, so that it was something of a relief when I was awoken by the sound of an insistent knocking on my door. The sun had long since set, so that the room was dark and positively arctic in temperature. I was sluggish and stiff with the cold. Only my legs were warm, where Toby had curled up and made himself comfortable.

Again came the knocking and I made an effort to reply. My voice was thick and I could hardly make myself heard. I shifted myself and the file that reposed on my chest tumbled to the floor in a cascade of papers and news cuttings. As I leant down to gather them up, the door opened and light cut through the darkness.

"Mr Fraiser sent me to wake you up," came a surly voice.

I glanced up to find the uncommunicative Samuel Finsbury stood in the doorway. This was the first time I had heard him speak and I was surprised by the slightest trace of an accent in his voice. Not German, nor quite French, but rather more Dutch, so that my natural inclination was to place his origins somewhere in the Netherlands.

I did not have the opportunity to test my theory, however, for his eye moved swiftly from me to the scattered papers on the floor. Uppermost was the coroner's report and on this was his gaze fixed, his eyes growing suddenly wide. The next I knew he had let out a scream like a soul hounded by demons and was on me in an instant, hauling me up by the lapels and thumping my head against the wall.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "And what do you know about my father's death?"

* * *

_Oo-er, didn't see that one coming! Notice how it's always the quiet ones? Well, let's hope he can shed some light on this mystery._

_Speak up, Mr Finsbury, and tell us what you know in Chapter Ten!_


	11. Chapter Ten

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Ten**

I dislike being manhandled at the best of times, least of all by hysterical young men making wild demands for information from my person. Both Toby and I were sufficiently alarmed by this intrusion to take matters into our own hands, although to my eternal shame I must admit that the dog was swifter to act. His sharp little teeth sank into the calf muscle of my attacker, making Finsbury cry out and loosen his grip. I brought my hands up between his, broke his hold on my lapels and threw him off balance.

Slipping on the papers, he collapsed in a heap on the floor. All fight fled his wretched frame. His face crumpled in a rictus of misery and he began to weep bitterly. There he remained, driving the heels of his hands into his eyes and bawling uncontrollably in the manner of a chastised child, watched with the utmost curiosity and embarrassment by both myself and Toby, neither of us knowing what to do with him. I did think of setting the dog on him again, if only to bring an end to this unedifying outburst of emotion, until finally Finsbury sobered and took command of himself.

"I am so afraid," he moaned. "Who _are_ you? Are you the police?"

Trying to explain why the answer to such a straightforward question was anything but simple would take us all evening. Instead I settled for a less demanding alternative, and one calculated to both awe and inspire trust.

"My interest lies in justice for a murdered man, Mr Finsbury." I paused to give my next words emphasis. "Although I sincerely doubt that that was your given name at birth. Your father was a diamond cutter, was he not?"

Finsbury's eyes widened like a baby at its first sight of light. "How did you know? Who told you?"

I smiled. "No one told me. I deduced it. Furthermore, I put it to you that you were working in collaboration with Michael Harding to find justice for your relatives. You know why he died. I dare say you know who was responsible. Why did you not tell the police?"

His face twisted as he was plunged once more into the deepest of despair. "Because I do not know!" he wailed. "Harding told me nothing of his plans. He said until he was sure, it was safer that way. May God forgive me, but I was too scared to speak out."

I sighed with mounting irritation as once again he broke down and buried his face in his hands. I did not disbelieve that his fear was genuine, but this continued indulgence solved nothing. With my hand at his arm, I guided him over to the bed and made him sit. He took the cigarette I offered him with a trembling hand, and it took a long minute before his nerves were calmed enough to speak.

"It is time to tell the truth," I said. "You owe Harding that much."

He nodded with some hesitation. "It seems I must trust you, Mr Holmes." He paused. "Is that your name?"

"To all extents and purposes, yes. And yours?"

"Well, as you rightly said, I was born Samuel Van Praagh in Amsterdam."

"In the diamond district, no doubt, hence your father's occupation. His disgrace forced him to bring you to England at a very early age."

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"I detected the remnants of an accent in your voice. English was therefore not your first language, yet you had been in this country long enough to have an excellent command of the language and near perfect diction. Why, then, should your father leave the area that was the natural source of employment for a man of his profession unless he was compelled to do so? As for his being a diamond cutter, I noted the official police report listed his occupation as 'craftsman', a suitably ambiguous title if someone wished to keep his true trade a secret. Even a carpenter is usually credited as such. Clearly then, your father possessed skills of an unusual nature. Ally that to my previous deduction, and the logical conclusion was elementary enough."

Finsbury essayed a brief smile. "It is obvious now you explain it."

"Most things are. Pray, do continue."

"My family have been in the diamond trade for five generations. My grandfather cut the famous Marquise Ruby for the King of Bohemia. You may have heard of it?"

There would have been few who had not. A year and a half ago the news of its disappearance had shocked the world, when an audacious thief had plucked it from the very crown that the current King was due to wear at a reception at Buckingham Palace. The police investigation had been on an unprecedented scale given the status of the owner, and although a luckless footman was languishing in prison for the crime, still protesting his innocence, the ruby had never been seen again.

"Well, as to my own father," Finsbury went on. "He could have been a man of as great renown, except his nature tended towards dissipation and opium. He said it gave him vision that enlivened his creativity, but in truth all it did was make his hands shake. You can understand, Mr Holmes, that few were willing to trust him. Diamond cutting requires iron nerves and a steady hand. One mistake can be costly."

He drew nervously on his cigarette and let a ragged stream of smoke escape his lips. "Without employment, we could not live. London has its own diamond centre and he hoped to make a fresh start here. My mother was English and he took her maiden name of Fanshawe when we settled in London. For a while all seemed to be going well. He gave up the drug and we prospered. Then, they offered him the opportunity to cut the Victoria Pink."

"The name is not familiar."

Finsbury shook his head dejectedly. "It would not be, although had the cutting been a success it would have been the greatest sight in all the world. It was a rare pink diamond, you see, very precious. Now it no longer exists. Nerves got the better of my father. He spent a month tormenting himself over the best cut and, as the day approached, he took refuge in the opium dens of Limehouse once more to give himself courage and 'a vision'."

A finger of ash dropped from his cigarette and fell as grey snow to lightly cover his toecap as he took a moment to reflect.

"He was in no fit state to undertake the task. The diamond shattered on the first cutting. There was no going back after that. My mother left him and returned to her family, taking me with her. At that point, he vanished from my life. I was working as an auditor for a company of Birmingham silversmiths when I read the news of his death last year. The Unicorn Man they called him." He gave a mirthless laugh. "He couldn't even die decently."

A long silence ensued broken only by the sounds of Finsbury's irregular breathing. Whatever his failings as a man, I sensed he had been redeemed as a father. Old attachments die the hardest, and those of blood may still awaken the dull flame of loyalty even after the distance of so many years.

"The official report said he had been killed by a whale," I remarked.

Finsbury snorted. "As likely as being killed by a unicorn, wouldn't you say? The coroner was a man called Templeton, ninety years old if he was a day and half deaf. I'm sure he was asleep most of the time. It was a mockery, Mr Holmes. The horn of a narwhal killed him, therefore it was a narwhal that did it, that was his verdict. If you ask me, he wanted it over with as quickly as possible to get home for his tea and carpet slippers. Is that justice? My father was murdered."

"I tend to agree with you. This is the reason why you gave up your employment in Birmingham and returned to the capital. But why here at the Tankerville?"

He dropped the burned out butt on his cigarette and squashed it under heel with a grim determination. "At the inquest, I met another young man, Michael Harding. It seemed his brother-in-law had been killed in similarly mysterious circumstances in Maida Vale."

I thought back to Finsbury's reaction the previous afternoon when I had encountered him for the first time. He had been sullen and silent, and had made an abrupt departure when criticism turned to Harding. It had been my opinion at the time that he had been hiding something, but I had taken the wrong tack in assuming he had been involved somehow in the death of the murdered man. That the pair had been friends was an angle I had failed to consider.

"Yes, the case of John Sommers, the victim of a 'ghost', so I understand."

Finsbury gave me that wide-eyed stare of wary awe. "You appear to know a great deal about the business already. Well, then, in that case, I do not need to explain further when I tell you that Michael, I mean, Harding was convinced that foul play was involved. He said his brother-in-law had made much of the fact that he had found a lucrative source of income. Easy money, he told Harding, and yet the man was a struggling musician given to drink. Harding said he suspected that whoever was behind this money had killed Sommers. He suggested we work together to bring the killer to justice."

"How did he know the killings were connected?"

"The manner of their deaths. It seemed he had been watching the papers closely to see if the killer struck again. He said it was too much of a coincidence for them not to be the work of the same man."

"You believed him?"

"It was either that or the whale theory. I knew which I preferred."

"And somehow you both came to be here. Why the Tankerville?"

The miserable fellow swallowed heavily. "Because my father left me a note."

This was a revelation. Others had trod this path before me and provided me with a link. From the beyond the grave, through the medium of his ally, Harding was leading me ever closer to the identity of the man behind the mysterious slayings in London that had claimed the lives of his brother-in-law, Peter Fanshawe and ultimately himself.

"This note, what did it say?"

"It was hidden beneath the floorboards of his room in Southwark. The place was a mess, Mr Holmes. It looked as though someone had been searching for something. The neighbours said that it wasn't uncommon for their rooms to be burgled because the landlord refused to put locks on the doors. I looked under the floorboards because my father had always told me it was the last place that thieves search. I found a tin with a few pound notes and a piece of paper that looked like a record of money received. For the past few months he had been paid five pounds every four weeks by someone listed as 'Tank. Cb'." He smiled nervously. "Harding was the clever one. He told me it must be someone at the Tankerville Club."

"A sound conclusion. Therefore, your next step was to secure employment."

Finsbury nodded bleakly. "It took some time. Staff tend to remain here longer than might be expected, considering the nature of the work."

"That in itself is suggestive," I remarked. "The staff of long standing would be the Warboys, Fraiser, Campbell and Jeffreys?"

"Not Jeffreys. He came to the club a few months before we did. The previous steward had committed suicide. They found him hanged in one of the stables." He saw my expression and quickly qualified his statement. "By all accounts, he had money troubles. Owned nigh on two hundred pounds to the sort of people who aren't willing to wait too long for their money. A similar situation to yours, if what you said was true," he added uncertainly.

I felt a smile creep across my lips. "Not entirely. Are you certain that this unfortunate man did meet his death at his own hand?"

Finsbury shrugged. "We never gave it much thought. According to the others, his creditors had been pressing him hard. That was why Mr Fraiser reacted so sharply when you said you had gambling debts. A gang of roughs beat him up on the night he died in the courtyard. I suppose it was just too much for him."

"That is one option, certainly," I said, turning the possibilities over in my mind. "But surely the aim of these creditors is to ensure the return of their money. There is little to be earned from a corpse. Now, I wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"If the Tankerville claimed another victim that night. However, without the relevant facts, this is mere speculation. Let us keep to what we know. Harding and yourself had secured your positions here. How was it that a number of places came up at the same time?"

"From what I understand, the other two posts had been created for the Salisbury twins, but… well, you've seen them. Hardly presentable." A faint colour touched his ashen cheeks. "I changed my name to Finsbury so that no one would connect me with my father. Then, Harding took action to see that we secured the two positions."

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly. Finsbury glanced at me and went on.

"He bribed the doorman, Mr Bullen, to remove the names of other applicants under consideration. It worked. That was nearly two months ago. We made little headway at first, or rather I should say that mine was the failing in that respect. I was too cautious. Like my father, I lack courage."

"But Harding discovered something?"

Again the terse nod, full of reluctance. "Last week, he became very excited about something. Said he knew why my father and his brother-in-law had been killed. I asked him to tell me what it was all about. He refused. He said he had to be sure. By the time he was, they killed him."

I felt a peculiar sensation prickle down my spine. Finsbury had used the plural in referring to the killers of Harding. I had deduced the involvement of more than one correctly, but how did Finsbury know when Harding had refused to confide in him?

He took a great shuddering breath and bowed his head when I put the question to him. "I know, Mr Holmes, because I heard him die."

I will confess that this admission drove what little warmth was in me to the very core of my being. Repulsion, like some parasitic worm, wove its way around my insides and revolted every instinct within me. I was sickened, and yet I had to hear more.

"What happened?" I asked. Finsbury moaned miserably. "What happened?" I demanded again, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. "Tell me!"

"It was late," he wailed. "He had the night shift. I came down to ask him again what he knew. I heard… dear God, forgive me, I heard his screams. I heard them killing him."

It was with the greatest difficulty that I framed my next question. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. I ran to my room and hid. What could I do, against them?"

It is rare that emotions ever get the better of me. I have strived to limit their interaction with my professional life to the extent where I might be described as cold-blooded. But this awoke within me such disgust that it was all I could do to contain myself.

"Their names, Finsbury." I shook him again. "Who killed him?"

"I do not know!" he insisted. "I do not _want_ to know. I want to leave."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because I am afraid. They watch you, Mr Holmes, they watch everything you do. If I had fled that night, they would have known I was working with him. Even now, I cannot leave without raising their suspicions."

I thought back to the marks on the murdered man's body and my certainty in the grim surroundings of the morgue that Harding had been tortured before meeting his end. If they had asked him what he knew, the question was how much he had been forced to reveal. The most courageous of men, under the most appalling of torments, might break and give up their secrets. If he had told them of his accomplice, Finsbury's life would be in danger.

However, here he was, weeping, broken, but unmolested. That no attempt had been made against him supported my belief that his presence was not known. Either that, or the killers were biding their time, waiting for an appropriate length of time to pass before another murder took place under the Tankerville's roof. If they were bold enough, they might strike now, knowing that the official police investigation was at an end. Wretch that he was, I feared for his safety.

"You cannot stay here," I said.

"Don't you understand?" he sobbed. "I can't. There is nowhere that I could run that they would not find me. You've seen what they are. What was done to your hand is nothing."

It felt rather more than that, but now was not the time to argue the point.

"They do things here, ungodly things that would not bear the light of day," Finsbury went on. "They are a law unto themselves and no one can touch them. They will kill me like they killed Harding and my father if they find out who I am and what I've told you."

"You've told me nothing," I countered. "You saw nothing, you will admit to nothing and you left your friend to die. You are a _fine_ example to us all, Finsbury."

"I know what I am," said he. "I am a coward, like my father. I am no better than he was!"

"No, you are different. You can go to the police and tell them what you know. You can help me put these murderers in the hands of the law and let justice take its course."

He was bent double, keening thinly and shaking his head. I knelt down beside him and forced him to look at me.

"If you stay, they may discover your real identity, if they do not know it already."

"Dear God in heaven," he said. "I had not thought—"

"While the police were here, they could do nothing against you, if that was their plan. You say you fear to run now? If you let them escape, Finsbury, one day they will find you, on that you may depend. Help me now and end this."

He gazed at me uncertainly, the fight for a decision played out on his tear-stained face. "How?" he asked at last.

"I have a contact at Scotland Yard." I gave him Lestrade's address. "Go to the Inspector tonight after your shift has ended. Tell him everything you have told me and he will be able to help you. Tell him I sent you."

Finsbury blinked up at me through his tears. "But who are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective."

"Yes, but—"

My raised hand brought his silence. I was certain I had heard the squeak of boards beyond the door. A swift step across the room to investigate revealed that the landing outside was devoid of human presence. No sound of fleeing footsteps, no shadows cast upon the yellow walls. I was sure I had not imagined it, although given the evidence of my own eyes, I was prepared to believe that it could equally have been the settling of an old building.

"Will you go?" I said, returning to Finsbury.

He nodded in a most lacklustre fashion. "If you insist."

"I do. If what you say is true, you will be a good deal safer beyond these walls."

"What of you?"

That was a fair question. Finsbury had given me enough to start to draw together the disparate strands of the affair. On the one hand, I had a murdered diamond cutter. On the other, I had some hint of a scandal at the gambling tables. Add to that stolen jewels, murdered musicians, and a sadistic suspect quite capable of performing the atrocities visited on the unfortunate Michael Harding. It seemed to me that I still had some way to go in finding the common link that would answer this mystery.

"I must remain," I said. "This business is far from clear."

Finsbury rose to his feet and offered me his hand. "Then may God go with you, Mr Holmes, for I cannot."

"Courage, Mr Finsbury. We will have an end to this."

The smile that came to his lips did not touch his reddened eyes. What I saw there instead was the faintest glimmer of trust. I hoped for his sake that I was doing the right thing by sending him to Lestrade. Failing that, there was always Gregson, but I trusted little to his tender mercies. He was liable to arrive mob-handed and send the culprits scuttling back into their shells. I told myself that Lestrade was sensible enough to allow me to continue at my own pace. Two days I had; I hoped it would suffice.

For the present, duty and my investigation had conveniently dovetailed. I dressed quickly, stowed Toby back in his lofty hiding place and hurried downstairs. This being Friday night, several of the members were already ensconced around the card tables. Prominent among them was the saturnine countenance of Major Handyman. I naturally gravitated in his direction.

There were four of them at the table. Handyman lounged in his chair with one leg thrust out to catch the unwary passer-by and the quiet assurance of a man certain of hand and eager to capitalise on it. Opposite him was the fellow who had breakfasted with Moran, Major Stanhope, a reedy-looking man with a face scraped clean of hair and a mildness in his manner that I thought sat ill with the determined set of his jaw. With them were two men I did not recognise, although their bearing suggested that they were something other than military men. Outwardly respectable they may have appeared, yet I had my doubts about them. Unclubbable, as my brother would have no doubt described them, and not simply on account of their dubious credentials.

Remembering what Major Prendergast had told me about Handyman's unusual runs of good luck when playing against non-members, I endeavoured as far as I was able to keep a close watch on the proceedings at that particular table. Once I saw him lose spectacularly, nearly vanquishing his pot in the process. With little enough to cover the stake, he had drawn a small pouch from inside his coat and tossed it onto the pile. I was fortunate enough to be close at hand to hear the jingle of something other than coins.

"Raise you," Handyman had said languidly. "That should cover it."

His opponent, a dark-eyed man with a small, mean mouth, had taken up the pouch and weighed it in his hand. "Do I need to count it?"

"Don't you trust me, Taylor?"

"About as much as you trust me. However…" The man had returned the pouch to the pile and grinned. "Honour amongst thieves as they say, Handyman."

With that, they had shown their hands. The Major bore defeat better than I had expected and had simply shrugged. He had not even protested when Taylor had gathered up his winnings and made his apologies for having to leave. With a space left at the table, the game was temporarily halted, until Moran, as timely as ever, came sauntering in and was invited to join them.

Thereafter, Handyman's luck took a turn for the better. By the time I was summoned away to attend to several members in the library, he had relieved the other guest of a sum in excess of three hundred pounds. The problem was that both Stanhope and Moran were doing equally well from him. Either this man was singularly unlucky or all three were embroiled in a plot to part him from his money. Had it not been for Prendergast's experience when he had raised a query, I would have tended towards the former theory. Whatever was happening at that table, they were certainly skilled at their art, for try as I might, I had seen no sign of foul play.

Annoyingly, the summons meant I was denied the chance to observe them further. In the library, a middle-aged general with bristling whiskers and a bluff, hearty manner was in private conference with a younger man whose face was hidden by the high sides of the chair in which he sat. A whisky and a brandy and soda for his friend was their order, which I prepared and brought back to where they sat.

"A whisky for you, General," I said, placing it on the low table at his side. "And for you, sir, a brandy and—"

The words died in my throat, as for the first time, I caught sight of his companion. Watery grey eyes stared back at me, shocked into startled keenness, as I beheld the familiar, if horrified features of my elder brother, Mycroft.

* * *

_Uh-oh! Big brother alert._

_Time for a 'touching' family reunion in Chapter Eleven!_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Eleven**

It was hard to say which of us was the more surprised by this encounter. This was the last place I would have expected to find Mycroft, a sentiment he no doubt shared in respect of me. The public space of the Tankerville's library was no place to conduct a family reunion, however. To silence any revealing remarks he was about to make, I upset my tray and tipped the drink into his lap.

Mycroft is not accustomed to leaping, but on that occasion leap he most certainly did, an most inelegant thing to witness in one whose frame tends towards fleshiness.

"My dear sir, you are quite soaked through," said the General. His gaze and monocled eye turned harshly on me. "Whatever were you thinking of, you blundering oaf?"

"It's nothing," said Mycroft.

"My apologies, sir," said I. "I will find a cloth to dry you off."

"Yes, you had better. Excuse me, General, while I attend to…" He gestured vaguely to his damp trousers. "I will return shortly."

"Box the young puppy's ears while you're at it," the General's voice rose up behind us as we departed. "That'll teach him not to be so dashed clumsy in the future."

To Mycroft's credit, he maintained his composure until the very moment we entered the Trophy Room and found that it was devoid of members. Then, his face turned an unusual shade of puce and I was forced to endure to the pious outrage of my elder sibling.

"What the devil are you doing here, Sherlock?" was his opening gambit. He peered at me a little closer. "That is you, isn't it, behind those infernal glasses?"

I pulled the spectacles off. "Of course it's me, Mycroft. Who else would it be? And, while we're on the subject, what you are doing here? Isn't the Tankerville just a little out of your usual orbit?"

"Don't try to change the subject," he said, sticking out his chin in that stubborn manner of his. "Whatever my purpose, at least I am not the one dressed as… as…" He could barely bring himself to say the word. "As a domestic drudge. Good grief, Sherlock, if Mother was alive today to see you like this, the shock would kill her all over again!"

"Mycroft," I said with a long sigh. "Don't be so melodramatic."

"No, this, brother, is a step too far. I know some of your interests are…" He chose his words with care. "Well, eccentric, but really, words fail me. Whatever is the meaning of this? If this is the extent of your ambition, then I wish you had said so sooner and saved Father a good deal of expense and bother over your schooling."

"Don't be obtuse," I countered. "I am here in disguise, obviously." I held myself a little prouder to say the next words. "In fact, I am working on a case."

This failed to produce the expected reaction. Mycroft's expression still bore that mark of disapproval. He was anything but impressed.

"So, you still persist with this detecting nonsense, do you? I had hoped you had found some more profitable occupation to fill your time by now. What is it this time, Sherlock? A missing dog? Lost lead pencils?"

"Murder, if you must know, and theft," I added for good measure.

Mycroft tutted. "And what, pray, do you know about either of those particular crimes that makes you qualified to 'investigate'? Surely this is the province of the professional."

If one thing is evident about the brief discussions we share as the remaining members of our particular branch of the Holmes family, it is that we do not rub comfortably along with each other. Seven years separate us, but it might as well be seven centuries, for he does not understand me any better than I understand him. Some might say this is because we are too close in character; on that point, I utterly disagree.

I consider that I am the best judge of how my brain is employed; Mycroft believes he knows better. He tends to judge by results, I by the challenge. What he considers as my idling away my time in pursuit of obscure interests, I see as the acquisition of specialist knowledge, which will one day be invaluable to my chosen profession. I, in turn, am irritated by his blatant sacrificing of both his principles and his formidable intellect for a 'safe' occupation in some government department. No wonder then that family meetings, such as these, invariably degenerate into quarrels.

"If you must know, I am assisting the police in their investigation," I said, tossing him a cloth to dry himself. "And I have a private client."

"Is he paying you?"

"Fifty pounds."

"What has he given you as a retainer?"

"His word."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Good heavens, Sherlock, you may have been born with brains, but you are woefully lacking in good common sense. If you see a penny of it, I shall be very surprised."

"My work is its own reward, Mycroft, although I doubt you would understand that."

"What I understand, _little brother_," he said, adopting that paternal tone that always produces in me the most teeth-grinding of annoyance, "is that you are penniless once again and lack either the means or inclination to remedy your situation." He dabbed at himself with the cloth. "I had word from our solicitors, Young, Young and Young, the other day about your situation."

"And how is the younger of the Mr Young?"

Mycroft peered at me imperiously down his nose. "He's seventy if he's a day, and much too old to be bothered by feckless youths who exercise little restraint over their income. He told me that yet again, you have been to him for an advance on your allowance. Indeed, by his calculations, you are five weeks' in advance."

This was in fact true, although I had not realised that I had been quite so impecunious of late. "I had expenses. Rent for a start. Montague Street is not inexpensive."

"The solution to that is obvious, Sherlock. Find cheaper rooms."

"I need to be near the British Museum. It is essential that I have access to the Library."

"No, what is essential is that you have a roof over your head and a food in your stomach. Good heavens, look at you. Nothing but skin and bone. You are positively wasting away."

It is true that, as brothers, we share few physical similarities. A casual observer might mark a passing resemblance around the eyes, but in other respects we are the proverbial chalk and cheese. Mycroft runs to fat, I hover on the threshold of emaciation. Indeed, looking at him now, it seemed to me that he had put on at least ten pounds since we had last met some three months ago, when I had gone begging for financial assistance.

"And what's wrong with your hand?" he wanted to know. "You're holding it like a wounded puppy."

"A burn, Mycroft, it's nothing."

"I knew a fellow once who lost a hand to a burn. Let me see."

I did not appreciate his concern, for I knew what his reaction was liable to be. However, he would have his own way and I was forced to remove my glove and let him see the damage. He recoiled as if I had thrown a viper in his path.

"_That_ is recent," he said accusingly. "How did it happen?"

I carefully replaced my glove and gave him a challenging look. "First tell me what you are doing here."

He eyed me with irritation and, seeing that I would not be intimidated on that point, finally condescended to answer.

"A personal matter," he said flatly.

This was plainly insufficient. I demanded to know more.

"Well, well, you have become the most exasperating little bore," said he.

"Then do not insult my intelligence."

"If you must know, I am on the cusp of establishing my own club with the assistance of a few other fellows. General Fairfax to whom you saw me talking is interested in joining our venture." A smile of satisfaction settled upon his plump features. "We intend to call it The Diogenes Club."

Quite what a smart London club and a Greek philosopher of the 4th century BC had in common was lost on me. For someone who promoted the acceptance of suffering and the avoidance of physical pleasure, the spirit of Diogenes must have been fairly fuming to know that his name was to be allied with a place populated with overstuffed armchairs and overstuffed gentlemen. Unless the members intended to emulate their club's namesake and live in barrels, which, knowing my brother, seemed unlikely in the extreme.

"You may laugh, Sherlock," said he, noting my amusement, "but the fact is that I can find little that pleases me in London's current institutions. I have no interest in idle chat and meaningless fiddle-faddle. This shall be a club for the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. I anticipate that demand for membership shall be great."

"Isn't that a little extreme, Mycroft? Surely there's a club for Whitehall clerks?"

I knew as soon as the words had left my mouth that I had touched a nerve. Something in his expression changed. It was too subtle a thing for anyone other than his most intimate acquaintances to note with any degree of accuracy. It went as swiftly as it had come, and for a moment I fancied I had been deceived. Indeed, I was certain I had, for that fleeting emotion had seemed to be one of intense pain, as though by my remark had cut him to the quick. Either he was embarrassed, which for Mycroft was a physical impossibility, as he was impervious to such considerations, or, more likely, I had blundered, grievously at that.

"Is that what you imagine I spend my days doing?" said he. "Ah, well, as a description, it is adequate enough, although somewhat far of the mark."

"What then? You have never been explicit as to your occupation."

"Because you have never asked." A tight smile twisted the corners of his mouth upwards. "Tell you what, brother, if you call at my rooms tomorrow morning, I'll take you to Whitehall and show you. Being Saturday, it should be fairly quiet. I'm sure they won't mind."

Although he said it pleasantly enough, I had the strongest impression that this was less of a suggestion and rather more in the way of an order. Ever since I had told him of my plans regarding my future career, he had been dubious in the extreme. The merest hobby of a dilettante, he had called it, and had poured scorn on my making a decent living from it. Thus far, he had been proved correct. This year had been my busiest to date, and what I had earned fell far short of my outgoings.

It was no great feat of deduction, therefore, to surmise about his purpose in making this offer. No doubt out of the best of intentions, he would have me sucked into the abysmal mire that is Whitehall, to rot away in some obscure government department with my mind turned to mush and my will broken. Equally, it was my intention to resist with all my might. I wondered what he intended to do when faced with such opposition.

"Am I to understand that you are refusing?" said he.

"Yes, Mycroft, I am. I cannot simply walk away from a case because you disapprove. I have certain obligations to fulfil in this matter."

"To a client who has paid you no money and the police who will give you no credit. A very worthy cause indeed, Sherlock. No, brother, I have tolerated this nonsense for long enough. I supported your decision to come down from Oxbridge a year early, because I had hopes that you intended to lead a normal existence."

"Whatever that is."

"In your case, anything other than what you are currently doing would be considered normal. It is not normal for the son of a gentleman to be demeaning himself by working below stairs. Good heavens, there are days when I almost wish you were like other young men, whiling away your time on wine, women and song."

His colour was up again and his temper roused. He was entitled to his opinion, as much as I was entitled not to listen.

"People ask me about you, did you know that? They ask me what my clever young brother is doing with himself these days. Do you know what I have to tell them?"

"I am not interested in the slightest."

"Well, you should be. I tell them that you are ill."

"Mycroft!"

"Because I cannot bring myself to tell them the truth."

"I didn't think you cared what anyone else thought."

"That is correct. But _this_," he said gesturing to my hand and general appearance, "this concerns me. No, Sherlock, you have given this career of yours a fair trial, but now it is time to look to your future. This tomfoolery ends this night. Tomorrow morning you will present yourself at my rooms at nine o'clock and we will find you decent employment in a respectable profession."

"And if I refuse?"

He pulled himself up to his full height. "Then, at five past nine, I shall go to our solicitors and instruct them to suspend your allowance."

I glared at him. "You would not! You do not have the authority."

"Who is the administrator of our father's estate?"

"You are," I said grudgingly. "But only because I was seventeen when he died."

"All the same, I can and will have you cut off with a shilling if you fail to comply. When you come to your senses, that instruction will be reversed."

He meant it, I knew that much. Mycroft had never been given to making idle threats and the right was his to instruct the solicitors as he saw fit. The difference was that I was no longer some callow youth that he could intimidate. The money was useful, there was no denying that, but either I was committed to my choice of profession or I was not. There could be no grey area. If I was, as Inspector Gregson had called me, a dabbler, then I had no business peddling my trade. If I was serious, however, I had to stand by my decision and that meant defying Mycroft.

The look of utter disappointment on his face was a sight to behold. Never have I seen him so moved, not even the day when he came to my school to tell me our mother's passing. If anything could have broken my resolve, it was that accusing and damning look. That I held was testament to my determination to succeed, although the rot of guilt was tearing at my insides.

"I cannot tell you how sorry I am to hear you say that," said he, in a quiet, unemotional voice. "I had hoped for so much more."

"I _am_ so much more, Mycroft. You do not understand."

He nodded. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have not appreciated the depths of our differences until now. It is fitting then that from this moment on I shall cease to call you brother. If our paths should cross, I will neither acknowledge you nor offer you words of support. Do not come to my door again unless it is to accept my proposal."

"If that is your will, so be it," I said.

He walked stiffly to the door, refusing to look at me. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I wish you every success. Just…" He took a moment to eradicate the edge that had crept into his voice. "Exercise a little caution, will you?"

This time he did look back, his gaze pointed and troubled.

"When you meddle in the affairs of dangerous men, do not expect that they will stand by blithely and permit you to bring them down. Nor should you allow yourself to be used out of a misplaced sense of duty. Your worth is greater than that. Withdraw, while you are still able, before others force you from the field."

I stared at him, stupefied and perplexed by his words. That he knew something about this business was evident, but how could he, my obstinate, domineering, prosaic elder brother, whose world revolved around the limits of Pall Mall and Whitehall?

"Mycroft, what do you know of this? Tell me."

He shook his head. "I cannot, not even to you, Sherlock, as long as you maintain this in this errant stance of yours. Leave now and you shall know all."

"So in so doing, abandon the case. That is no choice."

He sighed deeply. "In many ways, I admire your tenacity. All I will say is that if you persist, you must face the consequences. The dead know no shame, but those they leave behind know only sorrow. Now I must go. General Fairfax will be wondering what is keeping me."

As his hand closed on the doorknob, I hurried over and delayed his departure. "Mycroft, if you know something—"

"I know that you are out of your depth."

"You have always underestimated me."

"I have never doubted your ability, Sherlock, nor that you would one day succeed. Cream will always rise to the top of the milk, as they say. But you lack perspective. In many ways, you have vision; in others you are as unworldly as a babe. This is your last chance. Come with me now."

Newton's Third Law of Motion states that any action on a system results in an equal and opposite reaction. We were evidence of the veracity of that statement, each certain in our assertions, each equally determined to bend the other to our will. There was no common ground on which we could meet. From here, there could only be a parting of the ways.

I stood aside and opened the door for him.

"I see," he said quietly. "Then all that remains is for me to bid you farewell."

"You will see that I am right," I said.

"For your sake, I hope that you are. Good day to you, sir."

And without looking back, he departed.

* * *

_Ouch. Family arguments are never good. Hands up who thinks Holmes should have taken his brother's advice. He definitely knows more than he's telling._

_Let's see if he comes to regret it in Chapter Twelve!_

* * *

_A/N: Despite common usage favouring 'without', the phrase properly is to be "cut off WITH a shilling". This is based on the erroneous belief of previous centuries that complete disinheritance was illegal in English law and that some token bequest had to be made to avoid invalidating the will. A shilling was thought large enough to keep things legal, and small enough to be derisory._


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Twelve**

My encounter with Mycroft had left me smarting. All the same, I should not have taken out my frustration on the nearest wall. Angry sores opened on my fingers and wept blood until the fabric of my glove was more red than white. After that, I vented my annoyance in a few well-chosen words.

I had every right to be angry, although perhaps more so with myself than my sibling. I could have handled the situation better, I told myself. I had allowed myself to be backed into a corner and forced into making a choice that pleased neither of us.

It would be a lie to pretend that we were close, but there was a comfort in knowing that he was there, a last bastion of defence in troubled times. To be estranged over what might be considered a trifle was absurd.

Except it was much more than that. We had met as immovable objects and fought from our intractable positions. Now we were strangers and I was destined to join the ranks of the destitute, unless I could carve a worthwhile living from the cases that I hoped people would bring to my door.

The problem would come if and when I lacked a door for these people to knock at. I told myself that if that day ever came, I would not go begging to my brother. I would rather perish in the gutter than admit that he was right.

For the next few days at least, I had bed and board. My clumsiness with Mycroft's drink would have been noted and would be used against me. I did not doubt that another fine or another evening on my hands and knees polishing floors awaited me.

It could not be helped. I had been cut off from my brother's financial mercies and thrust into the ranks of those who had to work for a living. For the first time, the enormity of my situation struck me. One day, the time might come when I was glad of such a position as this, glad to groom irascible horses and happy to eat rancid meat. After all, beggars may not be choosers.

Unfit to return to my duties, I absented myself and went down to the kitchen. The fire had been allowed to dwindle to a miserable few flames under the care of the Salisbury twins, who were trying to make the best of a bad situation by buttering as many slices of bread as they could find. With Mr Warboys languishing in a prison cell and Mrs Warboys still weeping, the only thing for certain was that there would be no meal tonight, not even ones where the principle ingredient was stringy horsemeat bought cheaply from the local knacker's yard.

I bathed my hand in a basin of warm water and consoled myself with a slice of bread, the first decent thing I had had to eat since I had been at the club. Even this conspired against me. I bit down hard on something that jarred my teeth. I was sure I felt something give. Spitting the half-masticated food into my hand, I saw an ominous gleam of white. A quick investigation with my tongue found the broken spar of a left upper molar.

It was not deep enough to cause pain, but it did nothing to improve my mood. I had entered this accursed establishment in fine physical condition. A day later, I had a broken tooth, a bleeding hand, and housemaid's knee. I was half-starved, had been tortured with hot coffee pots and berated by elder brothers. On top of that, I was starting to question my sanity. Mycroft was right, curse him. This was no place for me.

Unfortunately, I am burdened with a stubborn nature. Nothing would induce me to abandon the case. Mycroft could throw a hundred objections in my path and seek to stifle my investigation by withholding what he knew, but I would never be dissuaded. I would go my own way in this, even if whatever was left of me by Sunday could fit comfortably in an envelope.

The Salisbury twins were picking their pimples again, which made my stomach revolt at the thought of what I might have ingested, so I took my broken teeth and aching hand out into the fresh air. Coming through the door, I met the head steward. As ever, he wore the expression of a man chewing on something unpleasant and his mouth further creased into a knot of displeasure when he saw me.

"Holmes, I've had a complaint about you."

"Oh, fine me then," I said abruptly. "I'm past caring."

For that, I got a slap around the face. Had I not been so completely taken by surprise, I would have retaliated and knocked him flat on his back. Fortunately for both of us, Mr Fraiser had experience in dealing with temperamental underlings.

"Watch your mouth, young man!" said he. "I'd put you out the streets this instant if we weren't so short-handed right now. Lucky for you the gentleman didn't want to make a fuss about it. Said it was an accident. Is that right?"

I silently thanked Mycroft for his consideration. "Yes, it was."

"Good. Make sure it doesn't happen again. You're fined a shilling. Get your lazy backside over to the stables and groom Major Handyman's horse. When you've finished that, you've got the night shift. Well, what are you waiting for?"

I had a smart answer to that, but thought better of it. The prospect of facing Satan again was enough to dampen anyone's spirits. I took myself over to the stables and was in the process of unbolting the closed stable door when a hand laid itself flat against the wood.

"I wouldn't open that one, if I were you."

Campbell had appeared from the shadows, where he had been having a quiet cigarette. The tobacco was cheap and noxious, as though prepared from the scrapings from someone's boot and mixed with old socks for good measure.

"Mr Fraiser told me to groom Satan," I said.

"Ah, well, he's in the other stall," said Campbell, gesturing behind him. "Got me dog in here. Don't want him getting loose."

"Your dog? I didn't know you had a pet."

He grinned, his yellow teeth showing the residue of his last meal at the gum line. "This ain't no pet, Holmes. He's a mastiff, not a purebred, mind; got a fair bit of wolfhound in him. He's a champion all right, won every fight he's ever had."

When you imagine you can sink no lower into the mire of human depravity, then comes the realisation that there are depths still to plumb. Dog fighting, along with bull-baiting, had been banned over forty years ago. Those who believed that a piece of paper and a statute enshrined in law meant an end to the lowest forms of so-called entertainment were sorely deceived.

"Aren't you worried about being caught?" I asked.

"What, here at the Tankerville? Who's gonna tell? The members like to see the fur fly."

"I bet they do," I muttered.

"You want to put down a small wager, Holmes?" Campbell asked. "I know you're a betting man and my dog's a sure thing."

What I would have dearly loved to do was to send for the police without delay and have him arrested. Having to tolerate the man's presence was increasingly loathsome. Unfortunately, it was necessary for the next few days. Then Lestrade could arrest the whole lot of them and close the club down for all I cared.

"I have no money," I said. "Besides, I should be careful, if I were you. I heard that police inspector say something about keeping the place under watch."

Campbell's expression became serious. "He did? Why?"

"Evidence against Mr Warboys. I believe he wanted to apprehend the person who was supplying him with suspect meat."

Campbell swore violently, threw down his cigarette and ground it under heel. "We're going to have to call it off tonight if the coppers are out there. I'd better send word to Charlie, tell him to keep his distance. Thanks for the tip-off, mate. I won't forget this."

"I'm sure you won't," I murmured, watching his back retreat into the darkness. "And I'm not your mate."

There was some small sense of satisfaction in knowing that I had succeeded in halting their objectionable entertainment for the evening. It soon evaporated when faced with the daunting prospect of a malicious horse and his array of sharp teeth. I had learnt my lesson, however, and kept him on a tight rein while I groomed the dirt and sweat from his coat.

From what I could tell, he had not been ridden far. The mud on his legs told of city life, with the usual array of animal excrement, sand and the finely-tilled soil of many a park and square. In one hoof was the squashed remains of a flower, its petals now robbed of colour and devoid of shape. Along with it was what looked like a torn shred of cabbage, although I was willing to accept the evidence of my eyes on that point and not trust to taste, considering where it had been.

Add to that the dried foam of masticated carrot at the sides of the bit, and I was led to the inescapable conclusion that Handyman had been near a fruit, vegetable and flower market within the limits of the city. The nearest was Covent Garden market, home to street traders, matchstick sellers and ladies of ill-repute.

The Major did not seem the type to have any particular interest in fresh produce, nor the faded charms of the women who plied their trade for a few pennies. My suspicion was that he had been passing through, somewhere not too far away, where his horse had had a chance to chew its impromptu meal thoroughly while its master saw to his business. Suspicious of nature I may be, but I could not help thinking that nearby was Hatton Garden, where traded diamond dealers.

Like Gregson, I had little faith in the doctrine of coincidence. Dead diamond cutters with a link to the Tankerville Club and one of its members visiting gem merchants was stretching the bounds of chance to breaking point. It needed thought, did this business, best aided by a quiet room and a pipe in my hand. Fortunately, I had access to both.

I finished my work in the stable, collected my pipe and tobacco from my bedroom, and made myself comfortable in the small room set aside for the night steward. A small brazier kept out the worst of the chill and I was able to settle down in the patched armchair for the long shift ahead, only occasionally disturbed by the needs of those members staying the night at the club. As the clock chimed out the small hours, I finally had the place to myself and the quiet I needed to apply myself to the matter.

Harding was the key, binding the disparate threads together. But I had to go back further, for this business had started long before his arrival on the scene. John Sommers, a failed musician, who had found a way of making money and had then died about the same time as a famous gem had been stolen. Six months later, a supposedly penniless diamond cutter from Southwark died, leaving a tin of money and a note implicating someone at the Tankerville Club. If Major Handyman had visited diamond dealers, as I suspected, then this would be confirmed or refuted by the watchful Wiggins and his band of brothers.

If one cut away all the extraneous detail of the manner of the murdered men's deaths, it seemed clear that simple thievery was at the bottom of this. Handyman was involved, I was sure of it. I had not forgotten that peculiar tinkle, not of coins, but of something much more delicate, from the pouch he had laid down as his bet at the gaming tables.

Taken to its logical conclusion, I could envisage a situation where Handyman had impecunious lackeys like Sommers stealing precious gems, which he then passed onto crooked cutters, who were willing to ask no questions and keep their mouths shut when it came to the re-cutting of certain famous stones. Once their original form was lost, who could say from whence the stones came?

The only weakness in the plan was the involvement of other people. Sommers had talked of 'easy money'; had he tried his hand at blackmail? If so, he had been killed for it.

Fanshawe too might have had the gall to ask for more, but in his case another thought occurred to me. His father had cut the Marquise Ruby for the King of Bohemia. What if, six months after it had been stolen and the police investigation had cooled, Handyman had delivered to Fanshawe the very stone for which his father was famous? Had he balked at the prospect of destroying his parent's work? Every man has their limits and I had to wonder whether some terrible stroke of ill fortune came to bear upon Fanshawe to test his.

That only left Harding. Everything the man had done pointed to his desire for justice for his dead brother-in-law: scouring the papers for similar crimes, teaming up with Finsbury and bribing the doorman to get work at the Tankerville. Why then had he gone to Major Prendergast and demanded money? It did not fit with what I knew of the man. I was ready to put a wager on the fact that he had not been a blackmailer; therefore, he needed the money for some other purpose.

What I was certain of was that he had indeed been in possession of information about the dealings at the club. Looked at from the criminal's perspective, what was one to do with purloined jewels? Handyman had had people to steal for him and re-cut them for him. All he needed then was a buyer.

It was so blindingly obvious that I was surprised I had not seen it sooner. He was doing his business openly at the card tables. The members of the Tankerville were wont to turn a blind eye to anything from torturing the staff to illegal dog fighting. Why then should they question that Handyman was laying his bets in something other than money? I thought back to the two guests playing cards with Handyman. The pouch with the gems went to one man, while his partner paid for the ill-gotten gains by losing hand after hand.

One had to admire the man's audacity. To a casual observer, he was simply a lucky player. Prendergast had been sharper of eye than the rest, although he had not deduced its meaning. He had noticed the unusual pattern and Handyman had flown into a rage. No wonder then that the situation was engineered to make it appear as though Prendergast had been cheating. He had been drummed out of the club, and Handyman had continued unhindered.

This must have been what Harding had discovered. What I had deduced in so short a time had taken him two months. Not that I held that against him; I had had the advantage of being pointed in the right direction, while he had had precious little at the start. No matter, for we had both arrived at the same conclusion. But this was where we would go our separate ways. Harding had been killed for knowing too much. I intended to live to see Handyman go to the gallows for his crimes.

Before that, I had to prove any of this. All I had was conjecture and surmise. Finsbury's testimony would help our case – and I fervently hoped he was currently pouring out his heart to Lestrade – but we still lacked concrete evidence. A good defence would tear Finsbury to shreds. The screams he had heard could have come from anyone. What proof was there that Harding had been killed on the premises?

While I pondered this problem, it occurred to me that I had at hand the perfect tool for the task at hand. That this device, a wet black nose, was attached to the skinny body of a playful puppy was all the better. Toby had proved his credentials in tracking the source of Mr Warboys's illicit meat purchases. I had every faith that he could find the place where his previous owner had met his end.

Upstairs, I found that my room was host to an unexpected visitor. Emily Rush glanced up with those big doleful eyes of hers that reminded me irresistibly of Toby and hurried to rise from my bed.

"You said you wouldn't mind if I fed the little mite, Mr Holmes," said she apologetically.

So much had happened since then that our arrangement had quite slipped my mind. Toby was gleefully devouring the chicken scraps that his visitor had brought and was leaving greasy streaks on the floor as he played with his food.

"If you want me to go—"

"No," I said. "Please, stay, Miss Rush. Although I do require Toby's services."

I went to the wardrobe and took out a singlet left by Harding. I sniffed at it, wrinkling my nose as I detected that unwashed smell that I hoped Toby would find distinctive enough to track. When I turned back, I caught Miss Rush looking at me strangely.

"Is that for washing, sir?" said she.

"No, this belonged to Mr Harding."

"I know. I saw him wearing it—" She paused, realising what she had said. "Oh, I mean…"

"I know what you mean, Miss Rush," I said soothingly.

"No, you don't, Mr Holmes. It's like I told you. He weren't like that. He said we were to wait. We just talked and… had a bit of cuddle, like."

"Did he promise to marry you?"

She lowered her eyes and started to twist her apron between her fingers. "He did. We were engaged, though he couldn't afford a ring." A tear trickled down her cheek. "He said he wanted to take me away from this place. Me and me little sister, Alice. She's ill."

"What's wrong with her?"

"The coughing disease."

I nodded, knowing full well the condition which she described. Consumption, exacerbated by the damp and dirty conditions endured by the urban poor. I had my answer as to why Harding had needed money from Major Prendergast. Fifty pounds, little enough for a gambler who lost twice that much in an evening at the tables, but everything to a man with a desire to make a difference. In every respect, Michael Harding had been that rare entity in this troubled world, a good man.

"What of your mother? What would she have said about you wanting to leave the laundry?"

Miss Rush shook her head. "She's been dead these five years, Mr Holmes. I've been doing the washing. I couldn't afford the soap, so I've been using—"

"Yes, I know," I said, thinking back to my encounter with the pot of stale urine in the kitchen.

"Michael, I mean, Mr Harding, he said that I should be working in a shop, all smart like, instead of having me hands in cold pee all day."

"He was right."

She sank down on the bed, weeping bitterly. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. Alice, she needs her medicine and I ain't got the money. She gets right ill without it, and I don't know what I do if I lost her. She's all I've got."

It seemed to me that I had taken on a good deal more than simply a room when I had taken over Harding's position at the club. I had inherited his friends, his concerns, his problems and his best intentions. I could almost feel his baleful spirit at my shoulder, urging me to do the right thing.

I delved into my pocket. I had the last of the money Lestrade had loaned me, a pound note and a few pennies. My brother called me feckless where money was concerned, but even he could not have disapproved of this good cause.

I held the pound note out to her. "Here, take it. I want you to have it."

She looked up, wiping her runny nose on the back of her hand and sniffing heavily. "What've I got to do for it?"

I bridled at her suggestion. "Nothing. It's yours. Get your sister her medicine."

She looked uncertain. "You sure? I don't want to be accused of stealing or nothing."

"You have no worries in that respect." I picked up Toby. "Good night, Miss Rush."

I left her there, needing to find space away from the misery that seemed to be coming at me from every quarter. Whatever it was about this place, it felt like it was sapping my will and destroying my identity. I was forgetting what it was like to immerse myself in the rigours of study, to dine in restaurants where the food did not break your teeth and to have one's room to oneself and not to be invaded by the wretchedness of others. In desperation, I tore off my glass and ruffled my hair. I needed to be myself, if only for a short while.

Setting Toby down, I offered him the singlet. He sniffed and snuffled at it, whining in remembrance of the man who had worn it. I removed it and immediately his head went to the floor. He sailed away, his flagpole of a tail with its bald tip waving enthusiastically.

The members' rooms he ignored, save for the Trophy Room, where he paused briefly over the bloodstain where Harding's body had lain. Onwards he went, seeking for where the scent was strongest. I followed him down the stairs into the gymnasium where he made much of sniffing at a particular part of the floor. Then, he laid himself down, placed his head on his paws and turned sad chocolate eyes on me.

I got down on my hands and knees and inspected the boards. They seemed clean enough, thanks in part to my own efforts of the night before. Toby's nose, however, had detected what I could not, the lingering smell of death. He had done well, but it would never satisfy a court of law.

I gave the dog a consoling pat. "You did well, boy." A long sigh racked his little body. "We'll make it right," I promised. "Harding will have justice."

Behind us, a floorboard squeaked under someone's weight and I glanced round to see Miss Rush heading hesitantly towards us. She had followed us, for what reason I could not guess, and her presence roused my suspicious nature. I rose to my feet as she arrived at my side and met her confused expression with a questioning stare.

"What are you doing, Mr Holmes?"

I took the view that there was no point in distressing her further. "Looking for something."

"Did you find it?" she asked.

I shook my head. The murderers had been thorough in cleaning up after their grisly work.

"Why are you here, Miss Rush?" I asked.

She essayed a brief smile. "You didn't give me a chance to thank you upstairs. For your kindness with the money, I mean. Ain't no man ever given me nothing that didn't want something in return."

"We aren't all like that."

"I know," she muttered. "You're like Michael. He never wanted anything neither. You… put me in mind of him."

To my surprise, she reached out and slipped her hand in mine.

"Miss Rush," I said, trying to withdraw from her iron grip.

"Emily. Please call me Emily."

She stared up at me, her face slightly flushed, the guileless eyes sparkling and wide. I was painfully aware of how close she was standing, of the warm brush of her breath, of the hand that came to rest on my chest.

"I'm not Michael Harding," I said gently.

She nodded. "I know, Mr Holmes, but you make me feel safe when I'm with you. You make me forget who I am. You don't treat me like a dirty laundry girl. You make me feel like… like a duchess or something."

Compliments come and go over a lifetime, and few are remembered but for a second. Emily Rush's words that night were to stay with me for much longer. I fancy it was the sincerity with which she spoke them, which in turn provoked in me the greatest need to reach up with my free hand and gently wipe away the tears from her face. Beneath my fingers, a smile started to spread, making her cheeks plump out and bringing a little warmth into her sad eyes.

"You know," she said shyly, "you're not half bad-looking without them glasses."

"I'm not who you think I am," I said.

"You're not Henry Holmes?"

"Not entirely."

This admission did not repel her. She accepted it for what it was and seemed more intrigued than indignant at the deception. "Who are you then?"

I never had a chance to tell her, for suddenly my ears caught the scrape of something sharp skidding across polished boards followed by the harsh bang of a closing door. I whirled round to find that we were not alone. By the door, a large tan dog was looking about warily, sniffing the air and getting its bearings. If I was in any doubt that this was Campbell's dog, I had only to look at the torn and ruined muzzled and the huge body laced with old scars and bare patches.

Slowly, its blood-shot eyes came to rest on us and a growl rose up from the back of its throat. Then it started to advance.

* * *

_Help! Big dog on the loose. Sounds like a job for a lion tamer!_

_Let's see if young Mr Holmes gets out of this scrape in one piece in Chapter Thirteen!_


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Thirteen**

As dogs go, this was one of the largest I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It was also possibly the most savage. The eyes were soulless, stripped of life by countless beatings and untold cruelty. It saw in terms of threats, and we, like the master who had shaped its character to his own ends, were fair prey.

On it came, one determined foot after another, all the while emitting that low rumble of a growl like the forewarning of an oncoming storm. Part of its jowls had been torn in previous fights and poorly healed, from whence a long dribble of drool dropped in bootlace length tendrils to leave a foam trail on the floor to mark its progress towards us.

What I needed was a means of dissuading the beast from its murderous intent upon our persons. A revolver would have been my weapon of choice, or failing that, a sturdy chair to fend it off. Unfortunately, I had neither.

I had a young frightened woman and a puppy that was showing too much interest in the intruder for his own good. As to myself, I must admit that I was woefully out of practice when it came to wrestling dogs the size of small lions with my bare hands. As such, I did not rate my chances very highly. I suspected that the next few minutes were going to prove very interesting and very painful for all of us.

"Heavens above, Mr Holmes," cried Miss Rush, clinging to my shoulder with such force that her nails dug into my flesh. "Whatever is it?"

"It's a fighting dog, and it does not mean us well."

"But where did it come from?"

"It belongs to Mr Campbell. He keeps it in the stables."

"Then what's it doing here?"

Good question, I thought. If we got out of here alive, Campbell would have some explaining to do.

"What are we going to do?" she persisted.

Another good question, but equally lacking in an answer. The dog stood between us and the door, and, I imagined, was agile enough to latch his teeth into any fool labouring under the delusion that he could slip past unnoticed. If I went one way and Miss Rush the other, at least we would be divided targets; however, I could not guarantee which of us the dog would attack. I had no objection to offering myself up to save the lady, but the dog might reject my noble sacrifice and go for the slower choice of Miss Rush instead.

There was also the problem of our escape. I had heard the door slam shut. The other night when I had broken my knees and chapped my hands polishing this floor, the door had remained open through the period of my ordeal. Therefore, it did not have a natural tendency to close. Someone had closed it, trapping us within. It was a very slim chance indeed that this person had then neglected to turn the key in the lock.

What this meant, looked at logically, was that we were in for a mauling. Come the morning, we would be found torn to shreds, our limbs scattered the length and breadth of the gymnasium and our blood daubed up walls and floor. We could try dodging the devilish fangs for a while, but sooner or later, our concentration would slip, the dog would attack and our end would be bloody, brutal and agonising.

I, for one, did not relish the prospect of those yellow fangs clamping around my jugular. Admitting defeat is not in my nature, and if I had managed to face off my brother, a formidable opponent if ever there was one, then a savage dog should give me little trouble. At least, that is what I told myself. If it came down to my trying to strangle the beast, I had a fair idea who would emerge victorious from that encounter.

I was about to find out whether I was right than I would have preferred. The dog had advanced to within several yards of where we stood, now backed up against the far wall. Any movement in either direction met with a growl and a leap closer towards us. Its ears were laid flat against its head and the ruined lips were peeled back, treating us to a close view of the vicious, sharp teeth.

I recognised the signs of an imminent attack when I saw them. I pushed Miss Rush behind me, putting myself between her and the dog.

"When it comes at us," I whispered to her, "run as fast as you can."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right behind you."

"Oh, Mr Holmes, I'm so scared."

I was not entirely confident myself, but I sensed that that was not what she wanted to hear. Nor would I have admitted to such a failing; on such occasions, in the face of certain death, a man is expected to adopt a noble _sang-froid_. Having been brought up on tales of gentlemen calmly smoking while a crocodile chewed on their leg or taking tea whilst under heavy enemy fire, I was about to find out if I could summon up a similar sense of composure. To my immense relief, it came quite naturally.

"Courage, Miss Rush," I assured her. "We are many and this beast is but one. We will carry the day, have no fear."

As impromptu speeches went, I thought it was rather good. Sheer nonsense, if ever I had heard it, but sometimes that is all that is required.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," said she. "I've got every faith in you. You'll get us out of this, I know you will."

This was rather pleasing to hear. My confidence soared.

"But even if we do get eaten alive," she went on, "I won't hold it against you. I just wanted you toknow that."

"Most gracious of you," I muttered. What she had given with one hand, she had promptly taken back with the other. "I can but try."

In the event, I never had to test my mettle against the beast. Another took the task on with a bravery that put a grown man to shame.

Toby sailed between us and the dog, yapping and prancing before the beast like a knight taunting a dragon. The mastiff's interest turned to this new nuisance and away from us. It snarled and lunged at the puppy, who darted with inches to spare away from the dripping jaws. He returned, barking his defiance, leaping out of the way of as the lethal teeth sliced the air before him and toying with the bigger dog in a match worthy of David and Goliath.

I blessed his brave little soul for the opportunity he had given us to make our escape. I gestured to Miss Rush that we should slip away, with all due care, and she nodded in understanding. Together, we took one step to the right. Immediately, the mastiff's head snapped in our direction. It growled and the muscular body tensed, ready to pounce. Then, once again, Toby came to our rescue.

As the sharp little teeth latched onto his opponent's leg, the mastiff let out a yelp of pain. In its anguish, it swivelled and snapped at its tormentor. This time, Toby was not quick enough to escape. The big jaws closed on his back and he was plucked into the air. The mastiff shook him like so many wind-tossed rags and threw him back to the ground. There he lay, paws twitching, whimpering miserably and horribly wounded. He had courage enough to raise his head to growl at his attacker, who was back on him in an instant. Its teeth bared and its mouth opened, ready to rip out the puppy's throat.

Taking my cue from Toby, I intervened. A well-aimed kick full in the side of its head sent it reeling away, stunned and dazed. A moment later, it was back up on its feet, shaking itself. I could have wished for longer, but it was time enough.

By then, I had swept up the injured puppy, grabbed Miss Rush by the hand and made the mad dash to the double doors. I gave her Toby and tried my strength against the lock. The doors shook, but would not budge. A quick glance through the keyhole revealed that the key was still in place. Given time and patience, I could have retrieved the key and opened the door from our side. Again, we had neither, for the mastiff was bounding towards us, more determined than ever to do us harm. He had tasted blood, and now he wanted more.

Unless I wanted it to be mine, I had to act and quickly. Beside the door was a rack of fencing foils, a poor weapon to use against a dog that weighed nearly as much as myself and was armed with more teeth. I grabbed the uppermost and affected the _en garde_ pose, more through force of habit than out of respect for my opponent, who I sincerely doubted would be willing to play by a gentleman's rules.

The swish of the blade before his face did stop the dog in his tracks. He backed up, eyeing me warily. I advanced, driving him back further, glad to have the advantage in this deadly game. This brute was as bold as he was cunning, however, and suddenly he sprang at me. With a deft stroke, I cut him across the nose. Against any other dog, this might have been reason enough for an admission of defeat and a quick retreat with the tail between the legs. But the mastiff was battle-hardened. The cut was as a flea bite on the hide of an elephant.

The next I knew he had clamped his teeth on the blade and wrenched the foil from my hand. The dog tossed it aside with the utmost of contempt and turned his malevolent gaze back on me. I read in those wild eyes murderous intent. His bloodlust was up and we both knew I was at his mercy. For him, this would be revenge against every human who had kicked and tormented and forced him to fight his fellows.

For me, it was a terrible way to die and a bitter pill to have to swallow in acknowledgement that my brother had indeed been right. I could only imagine what he would say when he was informed of my unhappy end. Out of sheer spite, I could see him putting 'Told You So' on my gravestone, which, considering the circumstances of my imminent demise, would not be wholly inappropriate. One lives and learns, or in my case, simply learns, although what use it would be to me in the few minutes of existence that remained was questionable.

The dog growled, backing up so that it could run at me and spring at my throat. I steeled myself and determined to go down fighting, even defenceless as I was. A step back brought me into contact with the rack of weapons, jarring them from their frame with my clumsiness. As they clattered to the floor, the mastiff charged. I looked away for an instant and saw the stronger blade of a sabre amidst the jumble. I reached for it and raised it at the same time that the dog sprang.

Momentum backed by twelve stone of solid canine muscle forced the blade through the dog's chest, impaling its heart and finally emerging through its back in a great gush of blood. Time seemed to slow as I felt the sabre snap at the hilt as the wounded creature let out a long, death-weary sigh, fanning my face with the noxious rotted meat fumes of its breath. We hung there, man and beast, suspended in deadly combat. Then, suddenly everything speeded up again.

One moment I was upright and the next I was falling to the floor beneath the dog's dead weight. I hit the boards hard and the dog's lifeless body sprawled spread-eagled on top of me, its blood seeping out to soak my clothes. I did not intend to emulate the example of the butcher who had slaughtered the massive Derby ram and then drowned in its blood, but for all my effort, I could not free myself from beneath its mighty bulk. I pushed at it, heaved for all I was worth and remained as trapped as ever.

"Here, let me help you," cried Miss Rush, hurrying to my side.

Between us, we succeeded in hauling the dead mastiff to one side. Thus free, I sprang to my feet, feeling more than a little shaken by the whole encounter.

"You killed it," said she, nudging the corpse with her toe.

"Not intentionally. How's Toby?"

He was worryingly still, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. He had bled heavily, and the white fur of his coat was red and matted where the mastiff had sunk its teeth into his back. I touched his muzzle and felt the chill breath of air against my fingers. At my touch, he roused enough to open pained eyes and reach out with dry tongue to try to lick my hand.

My heart lurched. This little stout-hearted had thrown himself into the fray to give us the time we needed to escape. The price of his selflessness should not be his life.

I tore off my shirt-sleeve and bound it around his middle. He whined pitifully as I tightened it, staunching the flow of blood. Despite all that had happened to him, the trust I read in his eyes was devastating.

"Good boy," I said to him, gently stroking the sodden ears. "You stay there and I'll find a way to get us out."

"Can you?" asked Miss Rush. "Get us out, I mean. The door is locked. Won't we have to stay here till morning?"

"I'm not waiting that long," I replied.

"I can't afford to neither. If I don't get the washing done, there'll be hell to pay."

"Then, escape we must."

The method I had in mind was an old one, simply involving my getting the key from outside the door to inside, where we were. For the task, I had in my pocket a small notebook. I tore a leaf from it and inserted it under the door. Taking a foil, I used its slim blade to nudge the key from the lock. It clattered to the floor, bounced and missed the page by inches.

"Is that bad?" asked Miss Rush, noting my muted expression of displeasure.

"I had hoped for so much more," I said with annoyance. "However, we are not without means to remedy the situation."

The gap beneath the door was large enough through which to pass the blade of the foil. Pressing my head hard against the floor, I could just about see the key in the dim light of the corridor beyond. Time and again, I lunged for it, missed and succeeded only in pushing it further from reach. Finally, a kindly fate prevailed and I managed to get the blade behind it and with the greatest of care drew it towards the door. I caught my breath as for one moment it seemed that it had become stuck, but with a little wriggling, I pulled it through. Thoroughly satisfied with my efforts, I picked up the key and brandished it in triumph.

"You are a clever one, Mr Holmes," said she with delight. "However did you know to do that?"

Saying I had read about the technique in an adventure novel when I had been laid up in bed as a boy with chicken pox took a certain shine from the success of my labours. As it was the truth, however, I felt obliged to own up. This admission did not diminish my achievement in Miss Rush's eyes.

"Well, I'd have never thought of something like that," said she approvingly.

"I have an excellent memory. Now, shall we leave? I've had my fill of this place."

I picked up Toby with the greatest of care and carried him up to my room. The pain of his injuries and his loss of blood had sapped the fight from his soul, so he offered no resistance when I laid him on a towel on my bed and undid the makeshift bandage to examine his wounds.

I do not profess to be an expert in treating such injuries, in either human or animal species, although perhaps I am a little more qualified than most. In my younger days, I had nursed a fox cub mauled by an adult badger back to health with great success. The day I released it into the wild was one of those burnished memories amidst the general torpor of childhood. That it had nipped my hand before it departed and left me with a festering wound was not something I held against it; one must act according to one's nature. Indeed, a little contempt in one's dealing with others I have always thought was to be preferred over fawning gratitude. It is an admirable quality which I have sought to cultivate ever since.

What this encounter had also taught me was that the messiest of wounds were not necessarily as severe as they might appear. The injuries I saw on Toby's back and side now were similar in appearance to that of the bitten fox cub. He had been plastered with blood over nearly all of his body, although the bites had been largely superficial. A quick examination revealed that this was likely the case for Toby too. If so, he had had a very lucky escape.

I dabbed at the blood with a little water, washing away the worst of it, until I could see the tears in his flesh. Thankfully, the bite marks had not been deep enough to penetrate his major organs. His thick unruly coat had probably saved his life, warding off the mastiff's teeth to some extent. What he needed was rest and warmth, for his body was cooling rapidly even as I worked.

"I need another blanket," I said to Miss Rush.

"Where from, sir? I doubt there's one to spare what with it being so cold out at night."

That I had not considered. However, I did know of someone who was not in need of blankets tonight.

"Samuel Finsbury," I said. "Take his."

"Won't he mind?"

I shook my head. His shift had ended hours ago and I imagined him now sitting before a blazing fire in Lestrade's house, warmed by a good meal and decent brandy. Miserable wretch that he was, at least he was out of danger, unlike Miss Rush and myself, who had barely escaped with our lives from our recent brush with death.

With this assurance, she hurried away to find what she could in Finsbury's room. I had expected some protestation about venturing out into the corridor alone in case there were any more savage beasts lurking in the darkness, but she appeared to have set the events of night behind her without a further thought. As such, one had to admire her sense of composure. Either she was either possessed of an extremely strong spirit or woefully lacking in imagination.

Considering what she had told me of her life, I was inclined to believe the former. With that in mind, I did not mention to her that I thought our misadventure not to be an accident. The evidence was strong enough on that point. Dogs do not escape from bolted stables of their own accord, nor do keys turn in locks by magic. A human hand had had a part in this. If I had been a betting man, my money would have been on Major Handyman as being the culprit, since he was staying at the premises and knew that Campbell would have had his dog close at hand in anticipation of the now suspended fight.

What I could not answer was why I should have been singled out for this particular treatment. To my knowledge, no one knew who I was, except Finsbury, and he would have been unlikely to reveal this fact to the others. It was true I had made enemies. The Major had thought me objectionable enough to burn my hand with a heated coffee pot, but turning a fighting dog on me seemed a little extreme.

Either then, someone knew who I was and knew of my reason for being at the club, or I had not been the intended victim. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as it dawned on me that the dog had been let loose after Miss Rush had entered the gymnasium. And I had just sent her out to find blankets on her own.

I rushed out into the corridor in time to hear her frantic screams. The door to Finsbury's room was open and I hurried inside, expecting to find her struggling with an attacker. Instead, I found the room dominated by what appeared to be a massive pendulum, swinging back and forth before the window, allowing brief glimpses of the new moon. Miss Rush stood to one side, her hands over her face, batting away the feet that every now and then swung back to brush against body.

"He's dead," she cried. "I came in here and found him. Look at him, Mr Holmes, he's dead!"

Her statement bore the mark of truth. In death, the man's head lolled in an unnatural position and the hands with its nails torn from scrabbling at the strangling noose hung limply by his sides. The suspended body slowed as the rope snagged against the bars of the window, turning the swollen face with its grossly protruding tongue around for me to see. Bile rose in my throat as I recognised him.

Samuel Finsbury had not made it out of the Tankerville alive after all.

* * *

_What a nasty place this is. Another death? Well, two if you count the dog. _

_Heads up, the police are coming in Chapter Fourteen!_


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Fourteen**

By the time I had sounded the alert, roused the other members of staff and witnessed the lacklustre investigation of the official police force, it was well past eight. Tiredness and depression had settled about me like the blanket I had wrapped around my shoulders to keep out the chill. I had told Finsbury that I would help him; instead, he had been strung up and left to claw at his throat and kick his heels against the wall as he was slowly strangled to death. The Tankerville had claimed another victim and no one seemed to care.

As I sat in my room with my head in my hands, I became aware of a presence in the doorway. I was not altogether surprised when I glanced up to see Inspector Lestrade, regarding me silently with his chin sunk on his chest and his hands in his pockets. The only wonder for me was that it had taken him so long to appear, considering that I had managed to get a message out to him over two hours ago.

"You took your time," I said, a little accusingly.

He gave a non-committal shrug. "Long hike for me, all the way out here from home, especially seeing how this isn't my case any more."

"Well, you're here now."

"Indeed." A grim smile came to his face. "Seems quite like old times, this does. You've got an unfortunate habit of tripping over corpses, as I recall."

The incident to which he was referring was of my finding a man consumed by fire in a theatre dressing room. In both cases, the men were dead by the hand of another, but there the similarity ended. I saw no cause for levity in the matter.

"Finsbury was murdered," I said.

"So your note said."

"They hanged him, Inspector."

"The word downstairs is that it was suicide."

"Sheer nonsense. Have you looked in his room? If he killed himself, what did he stand on? The chair was upright on the other side of the room."

Lestrade gave this due consideration. "He might have tied the rope around his neck and then hoisted himself up."

I shook my head. "The natural instinct would be to let go once pressure started to tell on the neck. One must either attain the height necessary and launch oneself into space or…"

"Or what?"

"Be forced up there by another. That is what I believe happened."

"Based on what?"

"Finsbury was not suicidal. In fact, he was on his way to see you."

"Why?"

"I sent him. He had information about the case."

"Oh, yes?"

I was starting to become more than a little agitated by this off-hand manner of his. "Inspector, you do remember why I'm here, don't you?"

He gave me a sharp look. "_I_ do," he said tersely. "How's your memory, Mr Holmes?"

This vague accusation took me aback. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Something you forgot to mention? A little matter of Gregson arresting the head cook and bottle washer for the murder, some cove by the name of Warboys?"

So, this was the reason for his brusque attitude this morning. When word had got back to him about the arrest and the conclusion of the case, he must have thought that I had abandoned him and switched allegiances. From what I knew of Gregson's methods, I would not have put it past the man to have had a hand in informing Lestrade of his efforts himself.

For now, I waved it aside. "Warboys is nothing, a mere distraction. I didn't tell you because it wasn't important."

"Easy for you to say, Mr Holmes. But you're not the one being sent to Rutland."

Considering my experiences over the past few days, I had cause to think that the Inspector was getting the better part of our deal. Compared to a raging mastiff, the charms of the north of England were much to be preferred.

"So there I was, hearing how Gregson has cleared up the business and not a word from you about it," Lestrade went on. "I thought we had an understanding."

"We do," I insisted. "Which is why I sent for you this morning. Handyman is up to his neck in stolen diamonds, Inspector. He has people steal them for him, he arranges for them to be recut, and then he sells them to buyers, here at the Tankerville. Harding knew it. That is why they killed him."

"And this Finsbury character?"

"He was the Unicorn Man's son. He had joined forces with Harding to bring the killers to justice."

"And now he's dead too." Lestrade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It all sounds plausible, Mr Holmes, but can you actually prove any of this? I mean, have you got something definite that I can place before a judge and not get laughed out of court?"

On that point, I had to admit defeat.

"Then all we have are theories." A sound made his head turn slightly to the left. He let out an impromptu groan. "Oh, good heavens, now we're in for it. Here comes his 'lordship'."

The person in question proved to be Inspector Gregson, beaming from ear to ear and sickeningly hearty in manner for so early an hour in the morning. He strode into my room without waiting to be asked, eyed us both with an air of contempt and sniffed disdainfully.

"Well, well," said he, squaring up to his fellow inspector, "if it isn't Inspector Lestrade of _Rutland_ Yard!" He grinned at the ever-present Constable Fowler at his back. "Did you hear what I said, constable, _Rutland_ Yard!"

"Very droll," said Fowler, as emotionless as ever. "I can hardly contain my laughter."

"I shall sorely miss your devastating wit, Gregson," said Lestrade. "It has given me and the rest of lads hours of amusement, it really has."

Gregson sensed an insult and his smile promptly melted away. "What are you doing here, Lestrade? I thought you'd be too busy packing. I should take a coat if I were you. You'll need it for all the cold-shoulders you'll be getting."

"I'm not gone yet," he retorted. "You'd do well to remember that, Gregson."

The feral grin returned. "Oh, haven't you heard? This case is now _officially_ closed."

"I thought it was yesterday," I cut in.

"We were part of the way," said he with confidence. "I said that arresting Warboys would make his fellow conspirators come crawling out of the woodwork. Now we have them all in the bag, thanks to Mr Holmes here."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Lestrade stiffen. Another blow for the fragile trust that we had forged between us. I gave a slight shake of my head to indicate that I had had no intentional hand in this business.

"Let me explain it as I see it," Gregson went on, strolling about the room to inspect its meagre contents. "There's this fellow, Harding, and by all accounts he's one of these that tells tales out of school. Only he sees how he can make a few quid out of it. Well, you've got old Warboys and his horsemeat dealings. Then there's this Campbell character we've arrested this morning. Been running illegal dog fights." He paused and shook his head. "Nasty business, by all accounts. He owned the biggest dog I've ever seen. Lucky for you it didn't rip your throat out, Mr Holmes."

"It tried," I muttered. I caught Lestrade watching me curiously. "The dog got loose, Inspector, and tried to attack me. I was forced to kill it."

It was a version of the truth I had presented to Gregson. Lestrade would hear the full details later, if he was still talking to me.

"Quite a mess there is down in the gymnasium," said Gregson. "And this Campbell's real cut up about his dog. Said he don't know how it got out. But I know." He tapped his nose. "I can always tell when they're lying."

"And what exactly does your nose tell you that Campbell is lying about?" asked Lestrade.

"Why, the manner of Harding's death, of course." He chuckled. "He wasn't mauled by a stuffed leopard, Lestrade. Any fool could have told you that. Tell him, constable."

"The dog did it, sir."

"Exactly. Him and Warboys had to kill him because he was bleeding them dry. So they set the dog on him and then between them made it up to look like some sort of accident."

"What did Finsbury have to do with any of this?" I asked, eager to hear what fascinating part in this conspiracy Gregson had fashioned for him.

The Inspector pulled a face and scratched at his jaw. "Well, he's dead and the others aren't talking. But if I had to guess, this Harding had something on him. Finsbury was a quiet sort by all accounts, sullen like. My guess is he couldn't live with what he'd done. So he hanged himself before we could do it for him."

I exchanged glances with Lestrade. We had evidently come to the same conclusion about Gregson's theory. The problem was that it fitted to some extent. He had a case of sorts, and we had nothing.

"Well, that's what I'll be putting in my report, gentlemen," said Gregson, rubbing his hands briskly. "My, but it's cold up here. You'll be glad to be getting away from this place, I dare say, Mr Holmes."

"Yes, but not yet."

Gregson shook his head. "Old Ffarly-Finch wants you gone. He said you've caused enough trouble and now the business is cleared up, he says you're to leave, right now. And he said he'd rather you'd not say what you've been up to; something about it unsettling the members. As far as anyone's concerned, you've been dismissed for your conduct and that's an end of the matter."

I jumped to my feet. "But I have a client."

"That's no concern of his or mine either. You were here under sufferance while the police were investigating the murder of Michael Harding. Now that case is closed, you've no good reason to be here. So, pack up your things, young man. Constable Fowler here will see you off the premises." He straightened his coat and assumed an air of importance. "I have to go and see the Chief Super to give him my final report. Good day to you, Lestrade. Give my regards to the good people of Rutland. Be seeing you around, Mr Holmes."

With a final chuckle of triumph, he swept from the room, leaving such a trail of chaos in his wake that I scarce knew where to begin.

"Er, give us a minute, constable," said Lestrade. "I'll see that Mr Holmes doesn't get up to no good."

"Take all the time you need, sir," said he. "Might I just add that me and the lads'll be right sorry to see you go, Inspector. You always dealt fair with us, unlike some I might mention. Just so as you know."

Lestrade managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Fowler. That means a lot coming from you."

The constable nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

"He's a decent enough bloke," said Lestrade. "Pity he's got lumbered with Gregson."

"What about us, Inspector?"

He considered. "It's over, Mr Holmes. I dare say you did your best."

"Best? Men have died here, Lestrade."

"That's _Inspector_ Lestrade to you, Mr Holmes." He gave a self-important sniff. "I'm still entitled to my title, whether at Scotland Yard or in Rutland."

"So, that's it? You're just giving up."

"It's a clever man who knows when he's beaten. Some cases just get the better of you."

"Not me," I insisted. "Speak with Ffarly-Finch. Persuade him to let me stay on, at least until Sunday night."

Lestrade shook his head wearily. "I appreciate you trying, Mr Holmes, but it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. I'll be long gone by then. The evening train has been cancelled tomorrow, you see. I'll be taking the early morning one at nine."

"We still have tonight."

"I said, leave it!" His tone had become abrupt and two spots of colour had risen to his cheeks. "Besides, it sounds to me like you're out of your depth. What was this about a dog?"

I sighed. "I was locked in the gymnasium with a big dog and a frightened girl. I had to protect one and fight off the other."

"Who? The girl or the dog?" he said with a mischievous grin.

"Inspector," I said sharply, "if you care to go downstairs, you'll see the creature for yourself. Then perhaps you won't find it quite so amusing. Someone tried to kill me last night, I am sure of that."

His manner sobered. "How do you know? It could have been an accident."

"I doubt it. Someone let the dog loose and locked us in. They meant it to kill me, or perhaps wound me seriously enough not to cause them further nuisance. Either would have suited their plans."

"You're referring to this Handyman character?"

"Yes. Why not? He has the perfect motive."

"Which you can't prove." It was his turn to sigh. He delved into his pocket and drew out brown packet. "Want a sandwich?"

"Not really, Inspector. I'd like to see Major Handyman behind bars."

"There's a small matter of evidence, Mr Holmes. If we arrested people based on theories and suppositions, there'd be more folk locked up than walking about free on the streets." He inspected the contents of the packet. "It's cheese, I think. Sure you don't want one?"

He seemed determined to have his way and, if I was honest, the prospect of a half-decent meal was very appealing. "Actually, it would be rather welcome, thank you, Inspector," I admitted. "I haven't eaten for days."

A thick sandwich with a wedge of yellow cheese was duly handed over. I regarded it with some suspicion, unable to clear my less than happy experiences with food over the last few days from my mind.

"This is proper bread, isn't it?" I asked. "And this cheese, it isn't made from anything strange like dog's milk?"

Lestrade let out a small laugh. "My, you do have some funny ideas. Is that what comes of a good education?"

I returned his smile. "I'm sorry, Inspector. It's just that I've learnt to be wary of food these last few days. Nothing is quite what it seems here."

I sank down onto the bed and took a bite. The bread was soft, and the cheese was fresh and flavoursome. I devoured it in no time at all.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to Toby.

The puppy had made it through the night, which was a good sign. With morning's light, his eyes had opened, although he was too weak to do much more than watch the world move around him.

"He was attacked defending me," I said. "Not before he found the place where Harding was killed."

"Where was that?"

"In the gymnasium. And no, I have nothing to show a judge and jury to prove it. What I can tell is how they killed him. Remember the straight cuts on his body? They were done with a fencing foil or sabre to make him tell what he knew. Either he was forced to fight or he was held and sliced. Finsbury said he heard his screams. They… tortured him to make him tell, then disguised the wounds. One straight cut, three ragged, to make it look like claw marks."

"Good heavens," breathed the Inspector.

"I believe he told them nothing, even after the pneumothorax was induced and repeatedly covered to trap air within his chest cavity, crushing his internal organs, fatally so."

"Then why is there no evidence? Where is the blood from this unfortunate fellow?"

"The floor down there has been varnished so many times, it is impossible for any liquid to penetrate the wood. The blood of that dog simply pooled. Wash it away and no one will ever be any the wiser what happened."

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "So if Harding didn't tell, why did they come after Finsbury?"

I thought back to the previous evening, to the noise I had been sure I had heard out in the hall. "I believe someone overheard us. They hanged Finsbury and turned the dog on me."

"Then you can't stay here, even if Ffarly-Finch did allow it. They've tried once, they'll try again."

"I am quite able to look after myself. Next time I shall be ready for them. Inspector, talk to Ffarly-Finch. Persuade him to let me stay another night."

"On your own? No, Mr Holmes, it's too dangerous. Now you've told me that, I wouldn't countenance helping you find a way to remain here. You leave, and you don't come back. Do you understand, young man? There'll be other times to catch this Handyman character."

"Not for you."

He shrugged. "Rutland isn't so bad. I'd rather clean country air and a clean conscience than my old job back and your blood on my hands. I have to live with myself, you know."

"Inspector, as a favour, I'm asking you to help me. I have invested too much time and energy in this case to walk away now. In fact, I can't. If I do, then it means my brother will have been right and I shall have to spend the rest of my days locked in some dreary basement in Whitehall."

His face brightened. "You have a brother?"

"Yes. I'm told it's a common condition when one's parents decide to have more than one child."

"And he disapproves of your 'occupation'?"

I nodded.

"Well, then perhaps you should take his advice. No, Mr Holmes, I can't and won't help you. I'm sorry, but there is it. Now, come on. Pack up your things and let's go before something else happens to you."

I had tried persuasion and had failed. I had tried appealing to his sense of justice and had failed. I had even tried to call in a favour and still Lestrade had been unmoved. Everything in this business had conspired against us. It was galling to think that the Tankerville had won. Fanciful I am not, but I had the strangest feeling it was looming over us and laughing at our poor efforts.

As I stuffed my few possessions into a bag, I noticed Lestrade stroking the ailing dog. "Poor little fellow," said he gently. "You leaving him here?"

"Certainly not. I'll have to take him with me, although heaven knows what I'm to do with him. What he needs is a good home."

"Can't help you there, I'm afraid."

"No, I understand." I glanced up at him. "How did Mrs Lestrade take the news of your move to the country?"

"Not well. She'll be staying with her mother till the baby's born. Says she can't go gallivanting about the country in her condition."

"Understandable."

"She'll come up north with the children when she's good and ready."

From his tone of voice, I sensed a rift between husband and wife. The stakes in this game had been high indeed. It made me more than ever convinced that walking away was the wrong thing to do.

"Well, then, it looks like this is goodbye," said Lestrade, holding out his hand. "It's been…"

"A pleasure?"

"I was going to say interesting. I don't suppose you have that two quid I lend you? I'm a bit short myself at present, what with the move and all."

"Not on me," I had to admit. "I'll send it to you."

He accepted this offer reasonably enough. "Ah, well, I dare say I'll manage. As for you, don't be too quick to turn down your brother's offer, Mr Holmes. You're a young man with a good head on your shoulders. You sound like the sort of people we need in the government. Who knows? You might even make Prime Minister."

"I'd rather join you in Rutland," I said with a smile, shaking his hand. "Good luck to you, Inspector."

He nodded and made for the door, only to pause on the threshold. "Before I go, I did find out one thing about Major Handyman like you asked, Mr Holmes. A rum cove by all accounts, but at one time he was considered the second finest swordsman this side of the Alps. Seems your theory about what happened to young Harding was more plausible than you realised. Good day."

As he left, Constable Fowler came in bearing a letter.

"They asked me to give this to you, Mr Holmes. Early post. Are you ready to leave, sir?"

I nodded, but my attention was rather more caught by my brother's distinctive handwriting. I tore open the letter and found inside a shiny new shilling. It was just gone a quarter past nine. He had not wasted any time. Now I was truly alone.

* * *

_Two Inspectors for the price of one!__ But what a mess it all is. Lestrade off to Rutland, Holmes dismissed from the club, Gregson with the wrong men under arrest. And now Mycroft has cut him off too!_

_Whatever will Mr Holmes do in Chapter Fifteen? _


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Fifteen**

A short time later, I found myself in the rubbish-strewn mews behind the Tankerville Club. Constable Fowler had performed his duty admirably, bundling me out into a snowstorm without a chance to explain to the remaining members of staff the reason for my abrupt departure.

If they wondered about my absence at all, they would inevitably come to the conclusion that I had been arrested, which might or might not work in my favour. Ffarly-Finch would hardly put himself to the trouble of stirring from his room to offer any other explanation for my disappearance. I had been a nuisance and now I was gone. For him, that was no doubt an end of the matter.

For me, however, it was anything but. As a description, unsatisfactory hardly covered it. The thought that I had been outmanoeuvred by Gregson and his fanciful theories about Harding's death rankled, more so because his alleged success had brought about my removal from the club. If I did not have access to the place, I could not continue to gather the data so vital to proving my own hypothesis about Major Handyman.

On the face of it, the situation was bleak. I had less than a day to bring the mystery to a satisfactory conclusion to save myself from financial ruin and Lestrade from exile to the rural north. On top of this, I had a sick puppy in my arms.

I had my rooms in Montague Street, although for how long was entirely dependent on the tolerance of my landlady. Dare I return with a dog, to which I knew both she and her cat shared a particular aversion, I might find myself ejected onto the streets with my things thrown out after me. I could not take Toby to my home, but neither could I leave him at the Tankerville. What we needed was a good novelist to commit our plight to paper and tweak the public's conscience, or failing that, to awaken some spark of compassion in my sibling and have a change of heart.

While I pondered this dilemma, the eldest of the Wiggins boys appeared from the open doorway of the latrine of the house opposite and wandered in my direction, his hands stuffed insolently in his pockets. I had not forgotten that I had asked him and his brothers to keep watch on the club and Handyman's activities in particular. What I had not expected was that one or other of them would keep up their vigil even in such weather.

In deference to the drop in temperature, the boy had found an old potato sack which he had wrapped around his shoulders in the form of a makeshift cloak. Beyond that single concession to the cold, however, he still wore only the patched clothes and old oversized boots I had seen him in the day before.

"Mornin', gov," said he, touching his cap. His eye came to rest on the bag I was carrying. "You going somewhere, Mr Holmes? Not been given the old heave-ho, have you?"

"Yes, I've been dismissed," I confirmed. The boy nodded, although I did not particularly care for the smirk that had settled on his face. "A temporary setback, nothing more."

"You're still on this here case then?"

"Indeed."

"And you'll be waiting us to keep our eye on the place?"

I had an inkling where this conversation was leading, but saw no way of foiling it. A deal is a deal, after all. I fished in my pocket and came up with the shilling Mycroft had sent me. I was about to spend the last of my inheritance. I trusted I had invested it wisely.

The boy's dirty hand with its fingerless glove shot out to receive his payment. I, however, held it back.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" I said.

"You didn't say nuffin' about payment on results," said he, pulling a face. "Mind you, it ain't been quiet around here."

"Go on."

"Well, late last night there was the coppers all over the place. Brought out some bloke on the dead cart. Hung himself, so they were saying."

"_Hanged_ himself, Wiggins," I corrected him. "Pictures are hung, people are hanged."

"Well, done himself in anyway," said the lad, with a sniff that ended in him wiping his nose across his sleeve. "Not as 'orrible as some I've seen carried out. Old man Perkins what used to live next door, he got his neckerchief caught in a winch and he was hung, I mean hanged. He didn't go easy either. Compared to him, that fellow last night didn't look half bad, considering he was dead an'all."

"Not by his own hand," said I.

Wiggins's eyes widened. "You mean someone did for him? Cor blimey, Mr Holmes, you didn't say nuffin' about no murderers when we took on this job for you."

"There's no danger to you, Wiggins, as long as you keep well out of sight."

"Oh, we're good at that, all right. That fellow on the big white horse you had us following had no idea me bruthers were behind him all the way this morning."

This was news. "Where did he go? Was it Hatton Garden by any chance?"

His jaw dropped. "However did you know that?" he said in astonishment.

I waved the question aside. Trying to explain would waste more time than either of us had to spare. "Am I right in thinking he went to a diamond merchant?"

Wiggins shook his head. "Nah, he met up with a lass. Me bruther Frankie came back half hour ago to let me know. Said the old fellow had his feet under the table all right there. Right comely sort by all accounts, but snooty and unpleasant with it."

"Did your brother find out know who this lady is?"

"She weren't no lady, Mr Holmes. Dressed up doggy she might have been, but she had no manners. Frankie picked up the hankie she'd dropped, and she snatched it off him without a by your leave and nuthin' for his trouble." He sniffed disdainfully. "Common as muck she were for all her airs and graces. What me old gran calls all fur coat and no knickers. That's to say—"

"Yes, thank you, Wiggins, I think I understand."

I paused to consider this turn of events. If the Major had a mistress he supported by the money he gained from thievery, then it explained his motives. One would have thought, however, that a man of his standing would have consorted with a better class of woman. That led to the possibility that the nature of their relationship was not necessary as it appeared.

"What did they do, this unlovely pair?"

"Looked in the shop windows of the jewellers, so Frankie said," Wiggins explained. "He said it were a queer business though. He said they stood and stared for a long time, and the woman was making notes in her pocket book."

"About the items in the display?"

"Funny you should ask that, Mr Holmes. Frankie said he thought they were looking at the people in the shop, not the stuff itself."

"Then what happened?"

"They went inside. Frankie said they got talking to this old dear who was being fitted up for a necklace. Well, after that, this copper comes along and tries to feel Frankie's collar, 'cos he didn't like the look of him. So he had to leave, but he caught up with 'em again and he followed 'em back to the Hotel Majestic. Then he came back here to tell me and I'm passing it on to you."

He held out his hand again for his reward. I had to admit that the boys had deserved it, but still, I kept it back.

"What happened to the gentleman after he took the lady to the hotel?"

Wiggins grinned impishly. "Well, they reckon I'm too young to know about these things, so I'll have to leave it up to your imagination, Mr Holmes. Whatever they were up to, both went up and an hour later they were still there, if you get me meaning."

I did, and I suspected he knew full well too.

"Do I get me shilling now?"

"Yes, you've done well," I said, dropping it into his hand. He examined both sides carefully, and then, to my consternation, picked it up and tested it against his teeth. "It is genuine," I said, more than a little offended by this show of distrust on the boy's part.

Apparently satisfied, he stowed it in his boot for safe-keeping. "Don't mind me checkin', but you can never be too sure. There's a bloke round our way makes his own, you see."

"A coin forger?"

"Oh, no. He's right handy. He'll forge anything if the price is right."

"Are the police aware of his activities?"

Wiggins grinned. "Well, if they did, he'd be out of business, wouldn't he?"

I supposed there was a certain sincere logic in that. In the grand scheme of things, I had more important concerns than a forger. Besides, if he was operating so boldly, then that responsibility fell to the police for their failure to act against him. It was not my place to supply their deficiencies, although some such little information as this might be useful as a bartering tool in future negotiations.

"This woman," Wiggins went on slowly, in the manner of one with information to share and a will to bargain for it. "How much would it be worth to you to know her name?"

"Haven't I already paid you?"

"Ah, but this a bit more on the side, like. Shall we say another shilling?"

He could say what he liked. The truth was that I had not such a sum to promise him. One does not like to disappoint enterprise, however, and I was bound to admit that a name to give Lestrade when the last members of this murderous band of thieves were put behind bars would be an advantage. I was sure that this lady's outing with Major Handyman, coupled with their peculiar behaviour, had much to do with the selecting of likely victims, who were about to be parted with their gems.

"Very well," I agreed. "You will have your money tomorrow. What was her name?"

Wiggins looked me up and down with a critical eye. "I'd rather see the money up front, Mr Holmes. Don't mind me saying, but you don't look like you've two brass farthings to rub together."

"Young man," I said, adopting my most authoritative tone. "You have been paid for your work so far. That should be surety enough that you will receive further payment."

"Just the same, I fink I'll wait. It's good business, Mr Holmes. I'd be betraying me father's memory if I did otherwise. Never trusted anyone, he didn't."

I could not fault his hesitation. Had I been in his shoes, I too might have doubted my ability to pay. I told myself it was my disguise as the unctuous Henry Holmes with his ridiculous glasses and greased hair that failed to inspire confidence. The trouble was that the parallel lines of our existence were starting to merge.

What the lad had not considered, however, was that with a little ingenuity on my part, I could easily discover this lady's name for myself. Failing that, once the culprits were safely behind bars, the arrest of Handyman's mistress or accomplice – although most likely, the lady excelled at both roles – could be undertaken by Lestrade. I knew the location of the hotel in which she was staying and had every reason for believing she would still be there come evening. Her name could wait.

"I have matters to attend to elsewhere," said I. "How long will you remain here today?"

"All night, just like yesterday."

I shook my head. "No, that won't be necessary. I shall have an errand for you to run tonight and then I want to you to return home out of this weather."

Wiggins sniffed. "S'not so cold," said he, wiping his nose across his sleeve. "Anyways, I've got the lavvy all to meself over there. There's not so much room at me gran's. And it's quieter. Apart from that row last night, right peaceful it were."

It said much for the lad's living conditions that he preferred a draughty outbuilding over his own home. All the same, I could not in all good conscience permit his remaining here at my behest with nothing but a potato sack to keep out the cold.

"There's a coat in that bag," I said, dropping it to the floor. "Take it. You'll need it if you're to sit here all day."

He quickly rifled through the contents and came up with the old overcoat that Michael Harding had left behind. I had been rushed from the club with such haste that I had piled everything into my bag with little attention to what was mine and what the dead man had left behind. I had no use for them, but clearly Wiggins did.

"'Ere, this ain't half bad," said he. It was many sizes too large for him and he cut a comical figure, swamped as he was by acres of fabric. "You sure you wanna get rid of this?"

"It isn't mine. It belonged to…" I paused, wondered whether the boy's sensibilities would be offended by the gift of clothes from the recently deceased. "It belonged to someone who does not need it any longer."

"He's kicked the bucket, you mean?" inquired the lad.

"Quite so."

"Don't bother me none," said he. "Waste not, want not, as me old gran says. They'd give a couple of bob for this if I put this in pop."

I had intended it for the lad to wear, not to pawn it. However, one has no say over the disposal of gifts and I dare say that Harding would have approved. I had done my good deed for the day and now had to consider what I was to do.

"Wiggins, do you know anyone who would like a dog?" I asked on the spur of the moment, nodding to the still little creature I held in my arms.

The boy wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, I was wondering what had happened to him."

"He was attacked by another dog. He needs care, but I can't take him home."

"We ain't got room for nuffin' like that. Mind, they're always buying down at the glue factory. They don't mind what state they're in. You'd get few bob for him."

I suppressed an involuntary shudder. Wiggins's severely practical nature was a little unsettling at times.

"Well, then, I s'pose you could ask old man Sherman over Lambeth way. A funny old coot, he is, always taking in strays. There's some say he's not right in the head."

It did not sound the most ideal of situations, but it would have to do. Wiggins gave me the address and I caught a cab to take me across the river into Lambeth. I had enough for a one-way journey, and I made careful note of our route so that I would be able to retrace my steps on foot once I had concluded my business.

To those who live north of the river, the south is something of an undiscovered country. The Thames acts as a divide, a barrier between two distinct communities. In times long past, the south was where illicit activities forbidden in the City were indulged – the bull-and-bear-baiting; the theatres of Shakespeare, the Globe and the Rose, viewed with suspicion by the city authorities, who had no authority to take seditious playwrights to task within the limits of the Liberty of the Clink; and the ladies of ill-repute, licensed by the bishop of Winchester since the twelfth century and consequently known as 'Winchester Geese'.

Here too had been the infamous Clink prison, destroyed in a riot a hundred years ago, much to the relief of the miserable collection of debtors imprisoned within. On this southern side of London Bridge, at the main approach to the City, were displayed the heads of traitors spiked on poles as a warning to all, left there until carrion crows and the wind toppled them onto the cobbles below.

Much had gone, but the poverty remained. We rattled passed ungainly tenements of smoke-stained brick, ramshackle dwellings held together more by luck than the builder's judgement. Emaciated children squatted outside, their hair matted and their eyes devoid of hope, playing with crude toys fashioned from flotsam and jetsam found on the foreshore. Sunken-cheeked women, their teeth pulled before the cost of dental work became a burden, turned to watch as we continued on our way, wary of the tallyman and the inspectors sent to check on overcrowding.

I was very aware that I was a stranger in their world, and likely not to receive the warmest of welcomes. The cabman knew it too, and no sooner had I handed him over the fare than he had whipped up his horse and made his departure. I was left at the upper end of Pinchin Lane, looking down a row of shabby, two-stored houses that leant precariously against their neighbours in the manner of drunken sailors. Behind me, the dark river lapped against the bank, edged with yellow scum and empty bottles, ready to embrace the unwary who might fall into its clutches. This was not a place to linger any longer than was necessary.

Number Three was several doors up from a rough-looking tavern, populated by hard-eyed, red-faced seamen, replete with tattoos and with barely a full compliment of limbs among them. I was conscious that they were watching me as I approached the house of Mr Sherman and knocked tentatively on the door. Almost immediately a cacophony of barking started up from within.

At the sound, Toby shifted in my arms and let out an answering whine. Several heavy objects, which I imagined to be the owners of the canine voices, thudded against the other side of the door, and I could plainly hear the sounds of their claws scratching at the wood and heavy panting. Of Mr Sherman, however, there appeared to be no sign.

In the front window were several stuffed specimens, which I supposed were part of the man's trade. A peeling rattlesnake was frozen in a perpetual rear, its opened mouth home to an enterprising cockroach that promptly disappeared into the creature's throat. Beside it, covered with a peppering of dead moths, was a faded weasel with a young rabbit in its mouth. Beyond that, a curtain, near-black with years of accumulated grime, prevented me seeing any further into the house. If Mr Sherman was home, I certainly could not see him.

I knocked again, louder this time. The dogs' voice rose up shriller than ever, and somewhere in the midst of this clamour, I heard someone swearing in the coarsest of tones. I banged with my fist, in an effort to make this person hear me, and was finally rewarded with the sound of a sash window scraping open above.

I took a step back to catch a glimpse of this elusive fellow. What I got instead was a drenching in steaming urine and cabbage leaves as a chamber pot was emptied over my head.

* * *

_Hot pee and cabbage leaves – hmm, very nice. Makes a change from cologne!_

_For the canon buffs, does anyone know what links Mr Sherman with Mycroft? Get your thinking caps on, answer in the next chapter…_

_Something tells me Mr Holmes will need a towel in Chapter Sixteen!_

* * *

_**Historical notes**_

_The Liberty of the Clink in Southwark was finally abolished in 1889 and merged into the new County of London. The Clink Prison itself was destroyed in 1780, being mostly used for the imprisonment of debtors. __The name gave rise to the phrase "in the clink", meaning "in prison"._

_To "pop" something is to pawn it. The nursery rhyme, 'Pop Goes the Weasel', refers to pawning, a weasel being a shoemaker's tool. Common practice was to take your best suit in on Monday, get money for the rest of the week, get paid on Friday and get your suit out of "pop" ready for church on Sunday and so on. For many, it was a vital source of capital._


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_So what does link Sherman with Mycroft? A cheeky one was this. Well, they are the only two characters in canon to refer to Sherlock Holmes by his Christian name. Which leaves me trying to explain why Sherman, a relative stranger, does something that Holmes's best friend never would. Hmm, let's see… _

* * *

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Sixteen**

There is something ineffably unpleasant about the sensation of moisture seeping down the back of one's neck. The experience becomes infinitely worse when one knows the nature of the liquid in question. Rain is unavoidable, but warm dog urine is quite another matter. I had a moment of the type of disgust that rises not from the throat, but the pit of one's stomach and results in shivers down the spine.

I stank, and I had a wet piece of mouldering cabbage making its way down between my shirt and skin. Rather more beneficially, however, the revellers at the tavern were having a good laugh at my expense and had lost whatever hostile intent they had towards me.

"Be off wi'you, you bloodsucking scoundrel," came a gruff voice from above. "I paid my due and you ain't getting another penny outta me. Now clear orf, fore I set me dogs on you."

"Mr Sherman?" I called up.

I had a brief impression of a yellow face, heavily lined and topped with an unruly mop of grey hair before several bones and a collection of what could only be politely described as kitchen waste was thrown down at me.

"Now, I've warned you once. I've got a wolfhound in here and he ain't eaten for a week."

"I understand you take in strays," I said hastily. "I have a dog here that's injured."

The words had a near magical effect. A large head atop a stringy neck and the most sloped of shoulders I had ever seen emerged from the upstairs window. Mr Sherman leaned further out, clinging precariously onto the pane with a lean arm, until I was sure that he must surely fall. Donning a pair of blue-tinted spectacles, he squinted down at us.

"You ain't from the landlord?" he asked suspiciously. "You have the look of a bailiff, young man."

"I've no connection with anyone else, sir, that I can assure you."

This seemed to satisfy him. He withdrew and a minute later, I heard the bolts being pulled back on the other side of the door. It opened a crack and Mr Sherman peered out at me.

"An injured pup, you say?" said he. "What happened to it?"

"He was savaged by another dog."

"Then you'd better come in."

The door was flung wide. Being faced with a pack of snarling hounds is enough to give anyone pause, and I admit that after my last encounter with such a creature I was reluctant to put myself again in such a precarious position.

Sherman, however, treated them like so many naughty children. "Now, now, out of the young gentleman's way, there's a good dog," said he, pulling a shaggy black mongrel by his ear from my path. "Take no notice of him, sir, he makes a big show, but he's as daft as a brush. Keeps the burglars out, but heaven help him if he ever comes face to face wi'one. Drop down dead from shock, I dare say."

The pack fell into obedience at the old man's admonishment and drifted back to their corners. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I caught the gleam of many eyes about the darkened room and heard the rustle of feathers. A spray of something white dribbled down in front of me, followed by coarse oath in a high-pitched voice.

"Now you mind your language, Colin," Sherman said to a bird with a curved beak and brightly-coloured plumage sitting in the rafters. "Sorry 'bout that, sir, he's got no manners, which is a wonder considering how he used to belong to an elderly lady from over Peckham way. Mind you, that's mild compared to what he called the vicar last week."

He gestured to a table, on which sat a marmoset clad in a tiny red waistcoat, busily sorting through a plate of browning fruit. It skittered away with a chatter of protest when Sherman sent it on its way and it took up position on the back of chair, where it took to pelting a sleeping cat with nuts from a nearby bowl.

With a space cleared on the work surface, I carefully laid Toby down for Sherman's inspection. For such an uncouth fellow, he proved to be surprisingly gentle in handling the injured creature. The dog made little complaint as he unwrapped the bandages and inspected the wounds. After a moment of close examination, he straightened up and adjusted his glasses.

"Fighting dog, was it?"

I nodded, slightly taken aback that he should have come so rapidly to such a conclusion.

"Seen it before, too many times," he explained. "You can tell because they always go for the same place. Trained to it, you see. Little 'uns like these they call 'taste dogs', so the mastiffs get a taste for the blood. Usually they shave 'em, so the big dogs know where to bite for the kill."

"Will he live?"

Sherman gave this due consideration. "Should do. I've seen 'em survive with worse injuries than this. Depends on if they want to, though. Some just lose the will to live." He ran his hand over Toby's muzzle and was rewarded by a snuffle of interest. "He'll do," said he. "Got spirit this one. What's his name?"

"Toby."

"Your dog, is it?"

"I inherited it."

"And now you want me to take it off your hands?"

For some reason, I felt acutely uncomfortable at having to admit the truth of his statement.

The old man nodded. "Don't be embarrassed 'bout it, sir. Least you've brought him 'ere, which is a darned sight more than what most would do in your position. There, now," he cooed to the dog, redressing its wounds, "let's see if we can't make you more comfortable."

While he worked, I took account of my surroundings. Animals were everywhere, from the collection of birds that were busy preening and dropping feathers onto the dogs below, to a cage where several ferrets were curled around each other so that one could not tell where one ended and another began. This room let out into another, a kitchen, where the glow of an oven was the focus of attention for several dogs and cats. Through the glass of the distant rear door, I saw a yard where several terriers were scampering about.

More disconcerting was the number of dead animals about the place, in various states of preparation. An eyeless barn owl lay on its side on a workbench, surrounded by a quantity of material used for filling out its shape. The branch beside it was obviously intended as its perch for its final presentation, along with a set of glass eyes ready to fit in the empty sockets. So much was evident about the man's occupation.

I was less certain, however, about the pelt of a curly-haired brown-and-white spaniel that lay draped over the back of a chair. Four paws hung loosely and the head, devoid of its skull, rested on a cushion. I started to have my doubts about Toby's well-being in this establishment.

"What exactly is it you do here, Mr Sherman?" I asked.

"I was a taxidermist," he replied. "Worked in a smart outfit in Clerkenwell till they laid me off."

My doubts increased, as my imagination conjured up several possible and unpalatable answers. "Why?"

He gave an amused grunt. "Let's say that I wasn't exactly in my first flush of youth. By then my eyes were playing me up. You have to have good eyes in this business – can't afford to make mistakes. So 'ere I am. The old firm still sends small jobs my way, the birds and such like for stuffing, nothing too difficult. It's little enough after the bears and big cats I used to work with, but the money comes in handy. It keeps the animals fed."

His voice was flat and unemotional as he spoke. This was either a frank statement of fact, accepted for what it was, inevitable and unchangeable, or he was the best liar I had ever encountered.

"And the dog?" I said, gesturing to the skin.

"That's Lucky, old Mrs Hathaway's dog. She couldn't bear to be parted from him when he died, so he'll be going back to her as a lap rug when he's dried out."

It seemed a rather unusual item to request, but then I have never been one to comment on the preferences of others.

"And these other creatures?"

"Homeless and unwanted," he said. "They came my way by degrees and I hadn't the heart to turn 'em away. Molly was the first." He nodded to an elderly dog with much white around the muzzle, fast asleep before the fire. "I kept passing her on my way to work. A skinny little pup she was then, but right friendly. Always ready to respond to a kind word. Then one morning, I found her lying half-dead in the gutter. Some boys had kicked the lights out of her for fun and cut off half her tail too. Well, I couldn't leave her there, so I brought her home. After that, the others just kept coming my way. Little Toby'll make it thirty-eight dogs I've got now." He gave a mournful sniff. "Mind you, it costs an arm and a leg feedin' 'em all."

I gathered that this was a prompt calculated to spur me on into giving a donation towards his expenses. Since I had given him another mouth to feed, it seemed only fair that he should ask. I scooped out the last of my coins, five pennies, and placed them on the table.

"Well, that's right kind of you, sir," said he, beaming gratefully. "Many folk dump their animals on the doorstep and that's the last I ever see of 'em."

"While it is true that I cannot provide a home for him, Mr Sherman, I am not entirely abandoning him. I may on occasion require his services. He has an excellent nose, which has proved itself invaluable."

"In that case, I'd better have your name to put on his kennel, sir, so I know who he belongs to."

"Mr Holmes," I said absently. "Sherlock."

Sherman scribbled the name on a rough square of paper. "Right then, there it is. 'Toby, belongs to Mr Sherlock'."

"No, Mr Holmes."

"That's right, sir. Mr Holmes Sherlock. See, I've got it written down."

There was little use arguing the point. It was near enough.

"Well, now, Mr Sherlock, I'll be sure to keep Toby available for when you need him. Providing I'm still 'ere, that is."

"You're leaving?" I inquired.

"Not if I can help it. But it's the landlord. Keeps putting up the rent and all of us in this row keep resisting. I'm not sure where we'll go if he does chuck us out."

"The landlord being the District Board of Works? They do own this area of land, I take it?"

"That's as maybe, but this fellow is their tenant and we're his. He says he can charge us what he likes, but our local vicar says it's above the odds. He says he would help, but the gentleman on the Board are busy people."

"What you need is a good lawyer, Mr Sherman."

He gave a sad smile. "We ain't even got the money around here for a bad one, Mr Sherlock."

That was a sentiment with which I could sympathise. Since our discussion the night before, I had been giving serious consideration as to whether my brother's actions in excluding me from the income generated from our father's estate was in fact legal, with or without the shilling.

I was ready to admit that the problem was in some part due to my willingness to allow him to continue administering the fund alone. With hindsight, I realised now that I should have insisted on equal status when I came of age. Having forfeited that right, I would now have to consult a lawyer as to my position.

The problem was, as Sherman had said, that lawyers were expensive. As I had given him what was effectively my last penny, I was either going to have to educate myself as to the finer points of English law or find an alternative source of funds. Unhappily for me, neither was going to happen quickly enough to save me a long walk home on a day so grey and miserable that even the sun had decided not to rise.

Leaving Toby in Sherman's capable hands, I pulled up my collar against the cold and set out for Bloomsbury. The walk was rather longer than I had thought and by the time I arrived in Montague Street my feet were aching and my burned hand had been aggrieved into copious bleeding by the chill wind that had bitten even through the fabric of my gloves and by the friction of the heavy bag that I had now carried through a greater part of London.

My reappearance was a cause of some dismay to my landlady. She expressed her disappointment in no uncertain terms that I had chosen to return, as she had had hopes that I had left for good, so that she could find herself another and, as she claimed, better tenant. That naturally led onto a reminder that whilst I had paid my rent arrears, another week was becoming due.

Did I have the money, she wanted to know, because if not, she had had the son of a country squire inquiring about the room. I had the strongest urge to tell her that background was no guarantee of prompt payment, as my own circumstances could testify. Instead, I assured her that I was keen to remain in residence and that she would be getting her rent shortly. With that, I retired to my rooms and shut the door firmly against the outside world.

For those moneyed people who complain about the burden of wealth, I heartily suggest they try being without it. Less than a day without visible means of support and already I was struggling.

It occurred to me that a reassessment of my finances might well be in order should I ever find myself solvent again. Certainly I appeared to have trouble keeping money in my pocket for any length of time. The two pounds Lestrade had lent me was long gone, and even the shilling Mycroft had sent me had been promptly spent. I had doled out money to weeping women, street urchins and good causes without a second thought. Now all I had was the contents of this room.

My one saving grace from utter despair was the knowledge of the reward promised by Major Prendergast. Until I exonerated him, however, I still had to pay my way. The solution was obvious, if undignified. Quite simply, I would have to submit to the humiliation of the pawnshop.

What to take, that was the question. Pawning one's clothes was much in fashion, although it seemed to me most degrading. My books were old and on the most obscure subjects, unlikely therefore to raise much interest. The only item of value I had to my name was my violin, but I balked at the prospect of pawning that. Genuine Stradivarius violins were rare; those to be had for fifty-five shillings even rarer.

Needs musts, however, and I reassured myself with the thought that it would not be out of my sight for long, a day at the most. If the nefarious and murderous activities of Major Handyman were not brought to justice by tonight, then I would not be alone in suffering the effects of failure.

With a heavy heart, I placed the violin and bow reverently in its case and closed the lid. I dismissed the idea of taking it back to the pawnbroker's shop in the Tottenham Court Road where I had purchased it lest the shopkeeper had realised his mistake. As luck would have it, I remembered seeing the three balls of the pawning trade hung outside a shop in Bury Street, one of the side roads that lay to the south of the British Museum. The location seemed to be felicitous, so I gathered what I needed for the night ahead and set out without delay.

With dusk gathering, the lamplighters were busy at work, painting the settled snow and slush with a yellow hue as they awoke the gas jets from their daytime slumber. Halfway down Bury Street, I saw the glow of muted light from the window of the pawnbrokers, and I hurried towards it, burying my face in my scarf lest anyone should recognise me.

In this way, my abrupt entrance somewhat startled the proprietor, a middle-aged, round-faced man with a halo of greasy brown locks surrounding his bald pate. He had been standing on steps, arranging volumes into alphabetical order at the top of the bookshelf, and the gust of air that accompanied my appearance near lifted him from his precarious perch. Having recovered his composure, he smiled graciously, a gesture which I noted did not reach his vivid blue eyes, and bade me welcome.

It was fair to say that the situation was new to me, and I fear that Mr Henry Chippendale was well aware of my discomfort. His manner was gentle and overwhelmingly unctuous, both reassuring and disturbing at the same time. Taking up his glass, he examined my offering with the greatest of care.

It was the way he put his glass down, as well as the expression of suppressed exultation that came to his face that put me on my guard. A slight beading of sweat appeared on his upper lip, which he took great pains to dab away with a blue embroidered handkerchief, and he then became more ingratiating than before.

"A handsome piece," he said, regarding me with renewed interest. "Is it yours, I take it?"

"It is indeed."

He inclined his head. "I must ask. Some unscrupulous people have attempted to pawn, shall we call them, items of dubious ownership."

"I can assure you that I have a receipt."

A nervous tongue travelled swiftly over his lower lip. "Capital. And are you aware that this violin claims a most honourable parentage?"

"I am aware," I said, rather too hastily for the gleam intensified in Mr Chippendale's eye. "I am also aware that the production of plausible replicas has reached the heights of near perfection. There are, I believe, more violins in existence than the maker could have credibly produced. In addition, certified pieces command a price in excess of the fifty-five shillings for which I purchased it from a reputable auction house."

The liberty I took with the truth was convincing enough to make Mr Chippendale's smile fade.

"Quite so," said he. "It is well to be sure of such things." He ran his hand lovingly over the instrument. "Still, it is a thing of rare beauty. If a man cannot have the genuine article, then this would serve very well. I am something of an enthusiast myself, and have made a particular study of the work of Antonio Stradivarius."

I felt my heart skip a beat.

"There are ways of detecting the real from the fake, of course. The golden colour, mellowed by the passage of time, for instance, the particular curve of the f-holes, the overall beauty of the thing. The label inside your violin was most convincing, but then what one man may make, another may copy."

He replaced the instrument in its case and I was able to breathe easy again.

"Fifty-five shillings, you say. Well, I believe I can match that."

"I was hoping for more."

He considered and gave a slight shrug. "In view of the quality, shall we say five pounds and a shilling for good will?"

"That should suffice."

"On the condition that the debt is discharged within three days. Students," said he disparagingly, all attempt at flattery now long gone, "I regard as something of a liability. With such a large amount at stake, I must be able to recoup my outlay."

I was unsure whether I was pleased or insulted that my current appearance presented such a dismal prospect. Appearing too prosperous would have made him reconsider his assessment of the violin; as it stood, with his low opinion of me and the slim likelihood of such an individual owing such a priceless instrument, I stood a good chance of getting my Stradivarius back and not some inferior model which Mr Chippendale might be tempted to substitute in its place.

Equally, he might effect a substitution in the mistaken belief that I would be ignorant of the change. How then would I be able to argue otherwise, when I had stood before him and the assistant I noticed skulking behind a glass cabinet of Staffordshire figures and stated quite firmly that the violin was anything but genuine?

By the time I took my money and left, I had convinced myself that I would be lucky to see it again. My only hope was that I could return before he had a chance to either sell it or leave a passable replacement in its place. The unreasonable frame of mind which this conviction produced in me as I set out for the Tankerville Club that night was, I believe, entirely responsible for the events that were to follow.

* * *

_Well, I think you would agree that Mr Holmes has reached a crisis. Can things get any worse?_

_Let's find out in Chapter Seventeen!_


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Seventeen**

I returned to the Tankerville Club that night with one mission in mind: to drag a confession from Major Handyman by whatever means.

In youth does one make such rash enterprises, but having reasoned it every way, I saw no other way of bringing the man to justice. Brazen he might be, in draping his victims about town and leaving the authorities to draw wild and erroneous conclusions, but he was careful enough to cover his tracks.

Too much time had passed to find other means of proving his culpability in the deaths of Sommers, Fanshawe and Harding. Nor could the death of Samuel Finsbury, not yet dead a day, be laid at his door with any degree of certainty. Given time, it should be easy enough to find evidence enough to convict him of diamond theft, but for me, and for the dead men, that would never be enough. Nothing save the short walk to the gallows would suffice for his taking of so many lives.

The only way, as I saw it, would be to force him into a corner. I believed that he already saw me as a threat. What else could explain the close encounter with the savage fighting dog the night before? If so, then I was halfway to my goal. What I needed now was to convince him that I represented a very real danger.

I knew it carried some considerable risk. The man had proved his murderous nature with a trail of corpses stretching from Maida Vale to the very door of the Tankerville. The killing of Harding, in an unbelievable act of bravado, supported what I had first surmised, that Handyman was confident that whatever he did, he would never be discovered.

Harding had known; that was what had got him killed. Now I knew. The difference was that I intended living to see Major Handyman hanged for his crimes.

My route took me to the mews and the back of the club. A small figure detached itself from the shadows and hurried over to meet me. I was in no mood to bandy words with the boy. I took the pawnbroker's shilling from my pocket and flipped it over to him.

"The woman's name," I demanded.

His face registered his moment of surprise at my tone. "Her at the hotel, you mean? Well, she was foreign. The porter called her Madame Doboys."

The boy's pronunciation left much to be desired. "Do you mean Dubois?"

Wiggins beamed. "That's it, Mr Holmes."

"Very good. Now I want you to take this note to the address I've written on it."

I passed him the brief letter I had prepared earlier for Lestrade. Wiggins stared at the writing, screwed up his nose and shook his head.

"'Ere, your handwriting ain't narf bad," said he. "I can't make head nor tail of it."

The address was clear enough. The boy was woefully illiterate.

I read it out to him. "Will you remember that?" He nodded. "Good. Tell the Inspector what you told me about the woman at the Hotel Majestic. Say that I suggested he arrest her before coming to the club. It would be a pity if the other members of the gang were to escape."

Wiggins frowned. "This bloke, he's a policeman, right?"

The boy's trepidation was understandable. For one who spent the majority of his time avoiding the police, to be actively seeking one out must have run against every of his usual instincts.

"You have nothing to fear, Wiggins," I reassured him. "The Inspector and I have matters of greater import in mind tonight. Deliver your message and then go home."

"You won't be needing me back here? I don't mind staying."

"Home," I said firmly. "There shall be police enough at the door of the Tankerville place before this night is through."

"You're gonna be bringing the villains to book, eh?" Wiggins asked.

"Indeed, I am. Now, be on your way."

He backed away, touching his cap respectfully. "I wish you luck then, sir. Sounds like you're gonna need it."

The gesture was appreciated, although superfluous. Luck alone would not get me back into the Tankerville Club. What I needed was cunning. I had an idea, the sort of illogical notion to which only desperation may give birth.

It had the beauty of simplicity, but not much else.

Quite simply, I intended to walk in and demand reinstatement of my former position.

It was not as improbable as it sounded. Out of the four junior stewards, Campbell was in prison, Finsbury was dead and I had gone missing, leaving the head steward with only the fawning Jeffreys to attend to the members' needs that night. If Ffarly-Finch, as I suspected, had failed to inform Fraiser of the reason for my dismissal, I might stand a good chance of appealing to his better nature. Not that I trusted him to have one, but certainly another pair of hands would be useful at a time when he was lacking staff.

With my confidence up and brooking no obstacles, I marched in through the club's rear entrance and proceeded straight to the kitchen. Warm, beer-tainted air made my frozen skin smart as I threw open the door. Unlike the furnace blast of yesterday, the temperature in the kitchen was tolerable. With Mrs Warboys still in a state of abject misery over the arrest of her husband, the roaring fire had been allowed to dwindle to a few pathetic embers in her absence.

Seated at the head of the table, alone and bleary-eyed, was Mr Fraiser with a tankard in one hand and a near-empty bottle in the other. The gust of cold air that accompanied my entrance roused him enough to look up and squinted at me. From his swaying manner and unfocused eyes, it was clear that he had been drowning his sorrows for the better part of the afternoon.

"Holmes?" said he. "Is that you, lad?"

"It is, Mr Fraiser."

He tried to rise to his feet and promptly fell back down. "We thought you'd been arrested," he slurred. "What're doing back here?"

"I was hoping for a bed for the night in exchange for temporary reinstatement."

Fraiser belched. "Have you been dismissed then?"

I had suspected correctly. The Head of the Club's Governing Committee had been remiss in not informing the head steward of my change in fortunes.

"It was suggested that I should make myself scarce after last night," I lied. "However, I find myself homeless. Tomorrow, I can find lodgings, Mr Fraiser, but not tonight. And I know you're short-staffed at the moment."

He snorted. "Am I not! I've had to send them two dullard Salisbury boys up to serve. Heaven only knows what a cock-up they'll make of it." He eyed me critically, as well as any man could in his condition. "Old Ffarly-Finch has gone home to the country for the weekend, so he'll not know if you're here or not. I can't pay you, mind."

"Just a bed and a roof over my head. That is all I ask."

"Now that I can do. Get yourself changed and get up to the members' rooms to help the others. And keep your head down, Holmes. Make a mistake tonight and Ffarly-Finch'll know about it for sure."

"What about you, Mr Fraiser?"

He waved his tankard in an unfocused manner. "I'll be up presently," he said. "Just raising a glass to young Finsbury, God rest his soul."

He took a draught and stared disconsolately at the dregs.

"Poor fool," he muttered. "I've seen men die, but none 'as gone like that. If only he'd waited another day. Things might have looked better in the morning. Now it's a pauper's grave and no one to mourn him. There's them that spend their whole lives running from death and then there's them that hurry to embrace it. Who's to say? Poor fool."

I left him to his drinking. The irony of it was that Finsbury _had_ been running, living every day in terror until I had persuaded to leave the club that night. Had he had the courage to speak up and run sooner, they might not have found him and left him to a slow and miserable death at the end of a rope.

I told myself this in the hope that it might go someway to salving my conscience. It did not. I had known the depth of danger that faced him and had trusted to my own judgement that they would not act against him before he had had a chance to make his escape. With hindsight, I knew I should have seen him safely away from the place the very instant he had told me his tale.

It was an unforgivable blunder. I had gambled and Finsbury had been the loser. What he had lost could never be replaced, and for that I held myself partly to blame. All I could do now was to bring his killer to justice.

I found my uniform where I had left it, draped across the unmade bed, ready for the next who would take my place in that dismal room. I donned Henry Holmes again with all the enthusiasm one has when donning flea-ridden clothes. I despised his every facet. The only consolation was that after tonight I could be rid of the accursed fellow for good.

I descended to the members' rooms to find that the card tables were again occupied. Horace and Maurice were there, slopping drinks over themselves and the carpeted floor, and scratching at various parts of their anatomy when otherwise unoccupied. If their etiquette left much to be desired, then I could at least be grateful for their dullness in the field of observation. They barely spared me a glance before returning to their unsavoury activities.

I slipped easily into the ranks, responding to the snap of fingers with a creeping gait and silent manner, little noticed by the players. Aside from the chink of money, the room was thick with that intense silence born of the concentration needed when vast sums are at stake. They had been here some time, for a fog hung about the room, wrapping blue tobacco-laden tendrils about the gamblers.

Major Handyman was at his usual table, with Major Moran and two other men, who I did not recognise. The eldest, thin-lipped and spare, whose quick eyes seemed to miss nothing, had a few pounds left to his name. A considerable pile of money lay in the centre of the table, to which Handyman was about to add his own bet.

Once again, a velvet pouch was produced, its contents a matter of trust between the players. As before, Handyman lost, taking defeat with uncharacteristic good grace. His opponent collected his winnings and then, with a deferential bow to the other players, excused himself on the grounds that the night air was not beneficial for a man of his advanced years.

The others congratulated him on his good fortune and bade him farewell. With that, their interest ended. In any other place, I would not have expected him to have made it to the door before he was thumped over the head and his prize snatched from him.

But this was the Tankerville Club, replete with its own strange rules. A man might murder, but his conduct at the card table had to be beyond reproach. A peculiar type of morality, to be sure, but it is always beneficial to know the mentality of the people one has dealings with; in my case, I was going to use it to hoist Handyman on his own petard.

Before that, there was the small question of the evidence that was on the point of disappearing into the night in the pocket of the elderly gentleman. I hurried out after him, only to nearly collide with the obsequious John Jeffreys.

Liquid slopped wildly from the cut-glass containers on the tray he was holding and it was all he could do to keep it from falling. The eyes he turned to me were wide and staring, more out of surprise, so I thought, than anything else.

"Mr Holmes!" he cried. "I thought you'd gone for good."

"Apparently not," I returned tersely, for I saw my quarry rapidly making his escape. "Will you excuse me?"

The man was almost to the stairs when I bumped clumsily against him. In the brief moment of our touching, my hand had dipped into his pocket. I apologised profusely, a gesture he accepted with equanimity, and we went our separate ways, he down to collect his coat, me into the Trophy Room to inspect the contents of the velvet pouch.

In the gleam of the gaslight, thirty tiny diamonds sparkled, reflecting back at me a rainbow of colours. Small and imbued with inner fire, I beheld the fruits of Major Handyman's elaborate network of thief and deceit.

I held in my hand a small fortune, once the trinket of some unknown and now grieving lady, reduced to so many perfectly-cut stones. For one terrible moment, I felt their irresistible allure, and knew why a man would kill for such a prize, more enduring than the beauty of a woman and just as fickle in affection.

I closed my hand around them and poured them back into their pouch. To how many others had they spoken their promises and woven their spell? Transformation had not diminished them; freed from the unity of the whole, to how many more would they speak and be found wanting in return?

My priority now was to find a hiding place. I cast around and saw the still open case of Moran's mounted leopard. Tying one end of the drawstrings around the creature's tooth to secure it in play, I slipped the pouch into its throat, where it disappeared from sight, ready for me to retrieve at the appropriate time to hand over to Lestrade.

I had my hopes that he was on his way. Wiggins should have delivered my message by now and the Inspector should be acting upon it. I had reckoned on the two hours it had taken him before, time enough for me to have Major Handyman ready for him to arrest.

That part, I knew, was going to prove the hardest. Murderers do not simply confess because one wishes it. What was needed was some inducement to ease him onto the path of truth.

I had decided that I could do no better than employ Handyman's own tactics. It was fitting too, that the ruse he had used against Major Prendergast should be his own downfall.

A card tossed casually beneath his card should be enough. Uproar would follow. Handyman would be disgraced and the slur he had cast upon Prendergast called into question. He would be ejected from the club, his membership revoked this very night. Then, I would let him know that I had done this thing and turn his ire against me. It carried some risk, exactly the sort that the Inspector had warned me against, but I was confident of my own abilities to withstand whatever the Major had planned.

Even if I had doubted, the memory of words spoken in this very room, of my conceited brother telling me that this case was beyond my scope, was sufficient to harden my resolved. When this business was over, we would be having a talk, my brother and I, and I would take great pleasure in receiving his apology for having doubted my abilities.

With this fledging, and I dare say, desperate plan in mind, I returned to the members' room. It was not difficult to slip a card away from one of the tables, a matter of bringing my tray to rest on the green baize and taking up the Ace of Spades in my hand as I did so. It took a matter of seconds, and all the while my heart was pounding and the blood was hammering in my ears. My attention was caught up with what I was doing, so much so that I did not see Jeffreys approaching, nor have time enough to prevent our collision.

The tray spun from my hand, the card going with it. Glass and silver tumbled down, accompanied by a shower of gold sovereigns that bounced across the floor. When the last coin had rolled to a halt and the clatter of the tray had been silenced, a long pause ensued, as though all were waiting for something to happen. I saw fear reflected in Jeffreys's eyes as he started to back away from me. Fear, indeed, but not of me or what he had thrown at my feet; rather of another, of the man who was rising from his chair, a self-satisfied smirk written across his vile features, none other than Major Handyman.

Fool that I was not to realise before Handyman would have an accomplice in this place. My mind raced back to the night before when Finsbury had been pouring out his tale and I thought I had heard someone outside in the corridor. There had been no one there when I had looked, but I realised now that the eavesdropper must have been Jeffreys.

He had slunk back to his paymaster, with news of Finsbury and his murdered father and of the private consulting detective masquerading as a steward in their midst. Handyman had decided both our fates. Finsbury had been silenced with a rope. Campbell's fighting dog had been loosed on me, either to kill or scare me off, either result having the desired effect of ridding them of my presence.

No wonder Jeffreys had been so surprised to see me a moment ago. And on this of all nights, when Handyman was conducting his nefarious business trading in stolen gems at the card tables. Whilst I had been occupied waylaying the courier and concealing the diamonds, Jeffreys must have informed Handyman of my return. A plan was put into action and the snare I was about to lay for another had been turned on me.

Wisdom may come, but invariably it comes too late.

The situation in which I found myself was not enviable. On the surface of it, I had been made to appear a thief, stealing the players' winnings. If I revealed my true identity, I was likely to have little sympathy. Either way, I would few friends amongst the members, if any.

Such is the price of failure. I realised that I was about to discover the meaning of retribution, as endorsed and practised by the members of the Tankerville Club. I had nothing in my favour, except the knowledge that the police were on their way. If I would still be here when they did arrive was quite another matter.

* * *

_Yes, Mr Holmes, that was stupid of you. You really should have seen that coming! So what are you going to do now?_

_Find out in Chapter Eighteen!_


	19. Chapter Eighteen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Eighteen**

Hindsight is a wonderful thing for those in any position to make use of it.

For me, it came much too late.

I knew I had erred, gravely, and in a manner that would have put the worst of amateurs to shame. I had made the cardinal mistake of underestimating my enemy. I should have anticipated that Handyman had an minion employed at the club to carry out his dirty work; the only consolation was that Jeffreys had played his role of meek and servile steward as effectively as I had mine. As a consequence, I had been outmanoeuvred and had raised the wrath of the Tankerville Club against me, an apparent thief with the proof my villainy lying scattered at my feet.

Ideally, one should enter these situations with the stronger hand; as it was, my position was untenable. One should not accuse a member of a respectable London club of murder and theft unless one has the backing of a goodly number of constables. I trusted they were on their way, but until then I would have to shift for myself. I did not hold out much hope of success. These men, ready to indulge in illegal dog fights and the permanent disposal of inconvenient members of staff, were hardly likely to concern themselves too much over the fate of a lowly private detective.

In future, I told myself – if I had a future that was – I would be taking pains to emphasise the 'consulting' part of my self-styled title. This risking of life and limb for a moral principle had its drawbacks, as I was discovering.

For the moment, I was unsure how to proceed. Major Handyman was fast advancing on me, his expression not one of fury but of gloating satisfaction. The other members were also up on their feet, expressing their consternation at the crime they believed had been perpetrated against them.

"I have you now, you villain!" said Handyman, curling his lip in dislike. "By God, boy, I promised you a flogging before, but _this_, this outrage will cost you dear!"

I had no doubt he meant it. I had no doubt either that the other members would quite happily stand by and leave Handyman to extract their collective revenge. I thought back to the morning the Major had burned my hand against the coffee pot. Then Major Moran had come to my defence, saying: _"if he does it again, then you can horsewhip him with all our approval"_. It appeared that his words were about to come true; I could not see him rushing to defend a thief over a fellow club member, whatever Handyman's faults.

If I had nothing to lose, coming clean about my identity and the real purpose of my being at the club was unlikely to worsen my case. Better to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, so the old saying goes.

I shed Henry Holmes as a snake does a skin, throwing away the horn-rimmed glasses and standing to my full and dignified height. "I am no thief," said I defiantly. "Nor your serving boy either. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective." A murmur rippled around the room. "But then, Major Handyman, you already knew that. Your lackey, Jeffreys, would have informed you of that fact after he had listened at my door and heard me talking to the _late_ Simon Finsbury last night," I said with emphasis. "Just as he told you that I had returned tonight."

"A private _consulting_ detective," said Moran thoughtfully. Of all the members, he alone seemed remarkably unruffled by this turn of events. "If you consult, what are you doing here, Mr Holmes?"

Excellent question, I thought. I could only attribute it to youthful enthusiasm, a feeling of obligation and a stubborn refusal to let men like Handyman get away with murder.

"Are you with the police?" he wanted to know.

Lies should always contain an element of truth, since it has the advantage of making them far more convincing than a manufactured fantasy. Furthermore, one does not have to strive greatly to remember the details. As it was, Lestrade had been thoughtful enough to suggest a means to explain my presence that did not touch on the question of the death of Michael Harding at the jaws of the spurious leopard.

"I was retained by Major Prendergast to clear his name," I announced.

"Prendergast?" said Moran, somewhat surprised. "That cheating reprobate?"

"Was he?" I countered. "It seems to me that Major Handyman is quite adept at arranging evidence to incriminate those who get in his way."

"'Get in his way'?" said Moran slowly, glancing at Handyman. "A curious expression, Mr Holmes. What do you think he means by that, Major?"

"It's nothing but bluff," Handyman grated, his face crimson with suppressed rage. "He would say anything to get himself off the hook. We have him caught red-handed. By his own admission, he has inveigled his way in here to spy on us. He's nothing but a snivelling emissary for that blackguard, Prendergast!"

Whatever the others opinion of him, Handyman told a good tale. The mood of the room shifted to palpable hostility, and there were calls for my sound and painful thrashing. I sensed I was not helping my case, but imminent danger is wont to make one reckless. I counted the minutes and thought it about time that Lestrade put in an appearance.

"You call me a thief, Major, but I dare say your colleagues would look askance if they knew how you acquired your fortune," I declared.

"That's enough," cut in Moran before Handyman had a chance to respond. "You strike me as a clever young man, Mr Holmes. Certainly you managed to deceive us for long enough. That takes nerve and courage. Normally, I dislike being wrong about people, but it seems to me that you have some explaining to do. Let us say theorise that these wild tales you're casting about are true. Do you have proof that Major Handyman deliberately implicated Prendergast for cheating?"

That had been my problem all along: the question of proof. This was why I was in this absurd position, forced back to the club to try desperate measures against dangerous men, and still remained as bereft now as I had ever been.

"No," I was forced to admit. "Except to say that I am no thief. What has happened here tonight is proof enough of what the Major is capable."

"Or, equally, Mr Holmes, proof of your villainy." Moran gave a tight smile. "What you say may or may not be the truth. However, there are laws in this land against slander. You do not merely cast a slur on a man's character and walk away. I suggest," he said, holding up his hand to silence Handyman's protest, "that you apologise for your conduct here tonight, and then you leave and never return to the Tankerville nor repeat these accusations."

"Am I to be defamed without recourse?" barked Handyman. "No, Moran, that will not do!"

"It is a start, Major. Well, Mr Holmes?"

I could not bring myself to do it, not even to save myself a flogging. To prostrate myself and beg forgiveness from a cold-blooded killer was something neither my dignity nor my sense of justice would allow.

Moran saw my determination and nodded a touch ruefully. "Well, I have done all I could. I bid you goodnight, gentleman."

"No stomach for a little blood-letting, Major?" Handyman sneered. "I always thought you were too soft with your men."

"I have no problem with the notion of a man redeeming his honour, Handyman," Moran replied. "I merely question whether you have any."

"How dare you—"

"Moreover, waste in the name of a futile gesture appals me. Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Unless some kindly providence deems it worth its time to watch over you, we shall not meet again."

With a final bow to the other members, he departed, leaving me to whatever fate Handyman had planned. If I had had one supporter, I had just lost him. Time would cause our orbits to pass once again, and in circumstances where he would not be so admiring of my natural abilities. For now, however, I was trapped in a room with a horde of scandalised men wanting retribution.

Handyman was more than ready to oblige and stripped his coat in anticipation of the task. "Jeffreys, fetch my stick and a length of rope," he ordered. "I'll take your apology out of your back, you young rascal!"

I will not deny that my insides had bound themselves into the tightest of knots at this prospect. I was not ignorant of the fact that Handyman had been accused of flogging to death a private under his command. The rumour was that he had carried out the punishment himself. I was under no illusions that he wished anything but the same for me; whether I was prepared to stand idly by and allow it to happen was another matter.

"If I have slandered you, sir," said I boldly, "then let the law deal with me fairly."

"Fairly?" he spluttered, breaking into a laugh. "The law is for fools, Mr Holmes, fools and dreamers who believe that justice will prevail. Here at the Tankerville, we leave nothing to chance. You, boys, Horace, Maurice – hold him."

My mistake was greater than I had thought. That the witless Salisbury twins were involved had not occurred to me. I had assumed them incapable of following even the most basic of directions, let alone be in the employ of a man like Handyman. They proved to be his willing servants, and eagerly sprang forward with the intention of snaring me.

It did not require much ingenuity on my part to evade them, a mere matter of putting a table between us. They had sense enough to realise that by dividing, they stood a better chance of capturing me than chasing me round and round in circles. I backed away and found a wall at my back and nowhere to go. I kept telling myself that Lestrade and the might of the Metropolitan Police would be descending on this infernal place any minute. Buying both of us time was of paramount importance if I wanted to see another day.

"Is this what happened to Michael Harding?" I chanced as the Salisbury twins prowled towards me. "Did he cross you, Major? Is that why he had to die?"

Handyman glowered. "So, now I am a murderer too, am I?" said he, an unctuous smile sliding across his features. "Have you no shame, Mr Holmes? Are there no limits to your slanderous accusations? I think I shall enjoy seeing you come to regret your words."

"And what will you tell the police? They are on their way as we speak."

"You lie, as you lied before. And even if they do come, who will believe your word, the word of a thief, over ours?"

I gathered that his confidence sprang less from the belief that I would fail to make a credible witness than the certainty that I would be incapable of communicating my story to anyone outside these walls. As to the other members, I could expect no support, no word raised in my defence. Handyman's frenzy was infectious. Reason had long been cast aside; they saw only that the Tankerville had suffered violation and defilement and that someone had to answer for it. Like wolves with a cornered deer, they saw their prey within their grasp and intended to show him no mercy.

Fortunately for me, the door was within my reach. With the Salisbury twins about to pounce, I flung the door open and was across the threshold in a heartbeat, knocking Horace to the ground in my hurry and pelting down the corridor for all I was worth.

One does not like to admit defeat. The notion of turning tail and running is, on the whole, anathema to me. But whoever said that discretion was the better part of valour must have had in mind moments like this. Faced with overwhelming odds, to attempt a battle which I must surely lose was foolhardy in the extreme. My ancestors must have been turning in their graves to see me flee from a fight, but it is easier to live with the knowledge of their disapproval than to meet a brutal and bloody end.

And so I run I did, to find escape from the Tankerville and its murderous members. Down deserted corridors I went, my footsteps beating out a sharp staccato rhythm on the polished wood floors. They pursued me, as I knew they would, like so many hounds, their cries awakening others to the chase.

My objective was to make it out into the street. Whatever happened behind the Tankerville's stately walls I trusted would not bear scrutiny in the cold light of day. Outside, even if Lestrade was not already there, I knew they would not dare to raise arms against me in so public a place. Not even the dullest of London policemen would ignore bloody murder committed in front of him.

What I had not counted on was the sudden appearance of Jeffreys, alerted to the commotion and ready, suddenly with a pistol to hand, to arrest my flight. The man was full of surprises, most of them unpleasant. We stared at each other, he almost daring me to trying to get past him. For a moment I toyed with the idea of wresting the weapon from his grasp. Behind me, however, the pack came on in full hue and cry. I dived through the nearest doorway and found myself in the servants' stairwell.

Going up would mean finding myself trapped in the upper rooms; going down would produce a similar result. On the grounds that it is invariably easier and less conducive to permanent injury if one attempts escape from a window on the ground floor as opposed to one on an upper storey, down I went.

With that in mind, I headed for the first door I saw on leaving the stairwell. What I forgot in my haste was that the room beyond, the gymnasium, on whose floor I tortured my back and pained my knees in endless polishing, had only one exit, that through which I had come. I was denied the opportunity to remedy my error, for in behind me streamed my pursuers, Major Handyman at their head.

"Well, now, Mr Holmes," said he, advancing with his swordstick in his hand. "Did you think to slip away so easily after casting such a slur on my honour? I have you, you scoundrel!"

"Better a scoundrel than a murderer!" I declared.

He stopped in his tracks and regarded me from beneath his hooded lids, which gave him the appearance of a malevolent hawk. "You repeat your slander, sir. For the stain you have cast upon my good name, I demand satisfaction!"

"You will have your day in court, never fear."

"Oh, no, Mr Holmes, I demand it _now_. You forget where you are, sir. This is the Tankerville Club. Different rules apply here. We mete out our own brand of justice."

The flogging he had in mind for me was soon forgotten as his eye lit upon the racks of fencing weapons. A more attractive notion had occurred to him, and he took up a sabre. Another he threw to me, which I caught, foolishly, in my right hand, causing my burned skin to crack open and bleed afresh.

Under different circumstances, I would have rated my chances in such a contest quite highly. At University, I excelled at the noble art of fencing, although, given other considerations since I came to London, I had been rather neglectful of practice of late. Added to which, my right hand was useless, compelling me to switch to the left. With very little in my favour, up against a man credited as being the second finest swordsman this side of the Alps, I was not confident of emerging victorious.

"A duel, sir," said my opponent. "Let it be to first blood, and then I will expect an apology. If not…"

That this was no idle threat was ably proved when he tested the keenness of weapon on the tip on his thumb. What should have been a blunted edge produced a globule of blood. As befitted a military club, these were genuine weapons of war, not for created for sport. The nicks and gouges I noticed in my own blade could only have come from its use on the battlefield. I hoped that the last person who had carried my weapon into battle had had better fortune than me.

"I do prefer the sabre," said Handyman appreciatively. "Truly, it is a man's weapon. I see you hold it with accustomed ease, Mr Holmes."

"I believe you will find me a greater challenge than your last adversary."

"Hah! But then he was not a gentleman. Harding was gutter scum, a rank, snivelling coward. And what of you, sir! A wolf in sheep's clothing if ever I saw one. Come to spy upon us, have you? But what happens in the Tankerville stays in the Tankerville, as you will soon discover!"

He raised the hilt to his face in the traditional form of salute before adopting the _en garde_ stance. I discarded my coat and waistcoat before returning the gesture. No matter that what we were about to do had been banned by Act of Parliament some six-and-twenty years before; as I knew from painful experience, the members of the Tankerville Club made their own rules, including the placing of wagers on the outcome of illegal duels such as this, currently their main preoccupation as they clustered towards the rear of the hall before battle commenced.

The fight – the term bout is far too elegant to describe what took place that night – was all fury on his side and all defence on mine. He charged at me like a madman, swinging his blade in a deadly arc, forcing me into retreat. Had I been a moment slower, I would have been cleaved in two by the blow that impacted on the wall where a second before my head had been.

The sheer power of the man was terrifying. His eyes were wild, bloodshot and staring, and his mouth half-open in a feral snarl. If I had ever been deceived into thinking that he would settle for first blood, this sight was enough to change my mind. He meant to best me, and take my life with it, of that I was certain. His wild slashes were too deadly to result in anything other than my evisceration, and his savage thrusts were driven home with every intention of burying the weapon in my stomach. I could only parry against such aggression for so long; already my shoulder was aching, my arm was heavy and perspiration was running freely down my face.

Our deadly dance came to an end with my failure to anticipate the wall that slammed into my back and knocked what little wind I had remaining from my body. Something flashed past my vision and I felt a sharp pain above my left eye. My hand went instinctively to my face to touch the warm blood wending its way over my eyelids to spill down my cheeks.

Handyman stared at me, his eyes alight with triumph. He had his victory. However, as I had rightly deduced, it was never going to be enough.

The tip of his sabre came to rest against my windpipe. "On your knees, you wretch," he hissed. "I want my apology, Mr Holmes. And then we will see what is to be done with you."

I offered my defiance and the assertion that I would never bow to his demands.

"You should not have meddled in my affairs, boy," said he. "No one crosses me and lives to tell of it."

"The police know. They have your accomplice. She will tell them enough."

His eyebrows rose. "So, you know about Madame Dubois? You have more intelligence than I gave you credit for. Not that it matters. She will tell them nothing."

"When she knows that she stands implicated in several murders, I am sure she will be more than happy to tell them enough to send you to the gallows, Handyman."

He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Men of my calibre are not hanged like common criminals, Mr Holmes."

Under the circumstances, I was gratified that I was still able to maintain an admirable calm. It served me well as I faced a vicious murderer and refused to be intimidated.

"Men like you overestimate their importance," said I.

His eyes narrowed and a sickly smile spread across his face. "Get out!" he yelled over his shoulder to the other members. "I have private matters to discuss with this blackguard."

The others, busy settling gambling debts, fell silent. Teaching a scoundrel a lesson in manners was one thing, but when it came to murder, whatever their own feelings on the matter, they preferred not to be party to the final act. Better to walk away and deny all knowledge later, an ethos which they had adopted before and now to great effect by taking to their heels.

It answered why no one had investigated when Harding's screams had sounded through the building on the night he died. Handyman and his network of agents were in control of the Tankerville and no one was willing to speak out against him for the sake of a dead steward. No one to speak out for me either, facing in their absence the bleak prospect of a fatal encounter with Handyman's sabre.

With the final member gone, the ever-faithful Jeffreys closed the door and lounged up against it, fingering his pistol in his coat pocket. In the unlikely event of my winning, I had no doubt that he had instructions to ensure his master was avenged.

"Now," said Handyman. "Pick up your weapon."

I did as I was told, although I was too exhausted and blinded by the blood that continued to drip into my eyes to know that our next encounter was going to be anything other than short. "Why Harding?" I asked, barely able to catch my breath, hoping to delay the inevitable. "Why did he have to die?"

"Because he tried to blackmail me. Said he knew what we were doing. Said he wanted to be involved, fool that he was." Handyman snorted. "He was a pathetic liar. Turned out he knew nothing. We found that much out later."

From what I could gather, I had not been the first to tread this path. Harding, finding himself as frustrated as I had been by a lack of proof for his suspicions, had taken what had seemed to him the only logical course of action. By offering his services and giving the impression that he knew more than he did, he had hoped to win Handyman's confidence and by close association gain the evidence he needed. I had had much the same idea, but by then the Major had had experience of dealing with spies in his midst.

"He told you this when you tortured him, no doubt," I said.

He grinned maliciously. "Oh yes, he was most forthcoming. Unlike you, he was very little sport. He squealed like a stuck pig, Mr Holmes, and told us everything we wanted to know, about his dead brother-in-law, John Sommers, about his fellow conspirator, Finsbury, and his drunken diamond cutter of father. We were biding our time to deal with Finsbury, but then you came along and we had to take matters into our own hands. A shame about the dog," he said, glancing at the place where the corpse had lain.

As confessions went, I had heard enough to take to the police. With his attention distracted, I brought up the sabre and sliced him across the cheek. He let out a howl of pain and dropped to one knee, hand clutched to his face, roaring at his minions to stop me. The Salisbury boys looked bewildered as I charged at them and they scattered in my wake. Only Jeffreys stood in my way, and he with his pistol drawn.

"Stay where you are, Holmes," said he. "Don't think I won't use this."

I took the gamble that he was a man of words rather than action. Events proved me wrong, for he fired as soon as I rushed him. I felt the wind of the shot pass my ear and was on him before he had a chance to loose another round. He yelped as I wrested the gun from his grasp and pushed him aside. I pulled the door open – and ran straight into trouble.

* * *

_Trouble – could it get any worse? Yes, I think it could. Oh dear, oh dear – he was doing so well too._

_Let's hope Lestrade comes to the rescue in Chapter Nineteen!_


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Nineteen**

Trouble in my case proved to be a slim-bladed knife and the man who held it.

I ran headlong into both.

It happened so fast that after the immediate impact and the shock of metal grating against bone I felt nothing. It _seemed_ to take a long time for body and brain to engage, for one to inform the other that a grievous injury had been inflicted upon me, that the weapon still protruded from the right side of my ribcage and that the hand of my attacker was firm upon the hilt. In reality, it must have been less than the space of a heartbeat.

When the pain came, it was blinding. My insides ran hot and cold. An agony of torment erupted in my chest. My stomach curdled in vomit-inducing spasms, and weakness spread throughout my body.

I would have fallen where I stood had I not been thrust back into the room with force enough to make the blade slip deeper between my ribs. The wall I hit offered scant support as I tried with what strength I possessed to find some hold upon it to halt my relentless descent to the floor. Once I was down, I feared I would not rise again so easily. Gravity won out and I collapsed in an ungainly heap, seated upright more by luck than judgement, feeling a thin trickle of blood running down my chest under my shirt, and dazed by the throbbing agony of my impalement.

My attacker came to stand over me, a look of smouldering contempt in his fierce hazel eyes. A stocky man of fifty, square-faced with a bush of brown hair heavily anointed with lime-cream so that it shone like burnished mahogany.

I knew him, of course.

I had seen him taking breakfast with Moran and at the card tables the night before, and had not made the connection. In the world of the Tankerville, he had appeared insignificant, drifting on the periphery as one of many without any particular role to play in the proceedings.

This appeared to be my day for being proved wrong, however. One comes to learn that the most dangerous of criminals are not those who brag about their misdemeanours or are wont to threaten violence whenever the mood takes them, but the quieter, more thoughtful men, who observe all and act accordingly.

Such was the case with the man I now saw with opened eyes, a commanding figure, grown in stature by the weight of his authority, known to all as Major Stanhope.

Blundering onto the scene came Handyman, a handkerchief pressed to the bleeding wound on his cheek and muttering foul oaths against me. "Good for you, Stanhope," said he. "You stopped the slippery little blighter."

"You may consider yourself fortunate that I did," he replied, turning his gaze on his fellow officer. "You fool, Handyman. You rank incompetent fool! What the deuce did you think you were doing?"

The transformation from bully to craven was not pleasant. "He _knows_," Handyman whined, gesturing to me. "I had to take matters into my own hands."

"As you did the other night, when you dealt with Harding."

"Exactly!"

"And here, I find you again repeating your blunder. You never learn!"

"I had no choice," Handyman protested. "He was about to denounce me to the others. Why do you think he came back here tonight? I _had_ to act before he did."

Stanhope fixed him with a level, venomous stare. "I think you've lost your nerve, Handyman," he growled.

"What was I supposed to do? If you had finished him instead of trusting to that dog—"

"He would have been dealt with, but not here and not now. By God, man, what were you thinking? That you would do this in front of the other members?"

Handyman made a dismissive gesture. "They will say nothing, as they did before."

"They will, when the police start to get suspicious. Another death will ensure that."

"Haven't you rather precipitated that particular crisis, Stanhope?"

His mistake was to sneer. Stanhope's expression hardened. "Unlike you, Major, I do not bring trouble to on my own doorstep. You have placed this operation in jeopardy by your hasty actions. I warned the Professor about you. I told him you were a hot-head. He said you had been useful in the past. I doubt he will retain that good opinion of you after tonight's events."

Handyman's face visibly paled. "He will understand," he stammered. "I did it for us."

"You flatter yourself, Handyman. All you have done for 'us' is to bring us to the attention of the police, something I have been striving these past few years to prevent."

"Come now, Stanhope," he wheedled, desperation causing his tone to rise by several pitches. "What else was I to do? He was throwing all sorts of wild accusations about. Moran was growing suspicious. He walked out."

Stanhope hissed. "If you've scared him off—"

"He would never have been interested. You were wasting your breath."

"Not yet, perhaps, but in time. I had hopes. Moran would have joined us." He nodded decisively. "He would have filled the gap your death created quite satisfactorily."

Handyman's eyes bulged. "My death? My dear Stanhope, surely you don't mean—"

He broke off abruptly when he saw the pistol that had appeared in the other man's hand. His jowls wobbled as he shook his head, backing away from him, words emerging as gibberish from his slack mouth. Death, when it came, froze a look of shock on his face. Blood oozed from the neat hole the bullet had made in the centre of his forehead, taking its time to wend separate paths either side of his nose. He dropped to his knees, mouth open, eyes fixed on a vision far beyond this world, and fell face forward a few feet from where I lay.

"You may consider yourself treated lightly, Major," said Stanhope, taking a deep breath. His gaze turned to me. "Where are my diamonds, Mr Holmes?"

Despite my own pained condition, I retained interest enough in my surroundings to take careful note of the conversation that had passed between the two. It was clear that Handyman had been a mere player in a much wider organisation that worked in layers. Stanhope, formerly his superior, himself answered to another, a link in the chain that stretched from stolen diamonds at one end to a mastermind who had engineered the thefts at the other.

That much was evident. What was not so clear was how Stanhope, who had not been at the club that evening or present until I had met him at the door, knew I had taken the stones. I was in no great hurry to join Handyman, but neither was I prepared meekly to comply with this demand.

Responding was harder than I had imagined. With every breath, it felt as though I was stabbed afresh. A pulse throbbed in my head and my heart hammered painfully against my ribs as if attempting escape from my chest. I could scarce draw in enough oxygen to maintain consciousness, let alone consider speaking.

Try, however, I did. "I don't know what you're talking about," I grated.

"You disappoint me," said Stanhope, returning the pistol to his pocket. "I will level with you, sir, since I know you to be an intelligent individual, of reasonable birth and understanding. You have become involved in something that you cannot hope to comprehend, nor, may I add, hinder to any great extent by your own efforts. You are an inconvenience, nothing more, a mere fly on the hide of an elephant."

"Flies get swatted," said the repulsive Horace Salisbury, sniggering with his twin brother over the joke he had made.

Stanhope offered him a lacklustre smile. "Indeed, Horace. Except before this particular annoyance meets that fate, he is going to tell us where he hid our diamonds."

"I do not have them," I said with effort.

"You stole them from our buyer, Mr Enderby, the elderly gentlemen with whom you collided earlier. When I returned a little while ago to find him in great distress of mind, saying that his pockets had been picked by a tall young steward in the club, it did not take the greatest leap of the imagination to deduce the thief's identity."

His hand came to rest on the wall next to my head as he brought his face closer to mine. "Even if we have to tear this place apart, Mr Holmes, be sure that sooner or later, we will find them. Before it comes to that, however, you are going to tell us."

Stubbornly, perhaps foolishly, I shook my head. He stared at me long and hard, seeing the determination in my eyes, and finally with a sigh that resounded with insincere regret, he sat back.

"I have some practice in eliciting the most intimate information from unwilling mouths," he said, throwing his coat to the sullen Jeffreys. I watched with a growing feeling of unease as he started to unfasten his shirt cuffs. "It has been a misfortune of mine to encounter more than my fair share of recalcitrancy of late from people who think that if they say 'no' enough times then I am liable to be dissuaded. They have found the opposite is true, to their cost."

"Sommers and Fanshawe?" I said with difficulty, seeking any delay for now what surely seemed inevitable.

He acknowledged my veracity with a slight incline of his head. "No doubt Finsbury told you."

"No," I replied. Gathering enough air to be able to speak was stripping my strength faster than the contest I had had with Handyman. I pressed on, eager to hear the man utter the confession that would see him hang, if Lestrade ever appeared on the scene. "The manner of their deaths: chest injuries to conceal the evidence of the wounds you inflicted."

"My, my," said Stanhope, somewhat impressed, "you have been busy. You are of course correct. This particular technique I learned during my time in India. Take a man to the very brink of destruction, and then, at the last moment, drag him back. You would be surprised at how many men find their tongues loosened when faced with such a prospect."

Pain and the immediacy of a prolonged and gruesome death have a way of sharpening the mind. I began to see the whole sordid business in its entirety, and make connections that previously had eluded me.

"You could not leave evidence of your activities," I said. "Hence the contrived and fanciful deaths."

"Any police surgeon worth his salt would have been able to diagnose the symptoms: pneumothorax, I believe the doctors call it. Add a touch of the bizarre, however, and you are able to enlist the help of the public. The police are faced then not with the problem of finding a murderer, but of tracking down ghouls and unicorns. Despite centuries of reason, we are not so far removed from the mentality of our medieval forebears, and their belief in dog-headed men and sky ships that threw down their anchors in churchyards."

"All this, for the theft of a few diamonds?" said I.

He appeared almost pained. "You insult me, Mr Holmes. We are no common or garden thieves. Only the most perfect of diamonds are of interest to us. The largest, the unflawed, _the_ most beautiful. You have heard of the Marquise Ruby?"

In all honesty, I was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. I was aware that my breathing was become laboured and that pressure, like a heavy stone placed upon my chest, was begin to press against my ribs. I retained enough presence of mind to recall, however, that the ruby in question had been stolen a year and a half ago from the King of Bohemia at Buckingham Palace.

"Sommers stole that for us," Stanhope explained. "He was a violinist, you know – and a fair one when he could keep his hands from the drink. We secured his placement with the octet employed to entertain their Royal Highnesses at the palace. He smuggled the stone out in his violin case. No one ever thought to search the musicians. He performed admirably." He sighed theatrically. "Then he asked for more money."

"You killed him."

"Not straight away. First he told us where he had concealed the stone, and then I _let_ him die. After that, his body went out of the window and Jeffreys stayed at hand to spread the rumour that a ghost was responsible."

It was the way he said it that made my skin crawl. "And Fanshawe? Presumably he baulked at the idea of destroying his father's masterpiece."

"That was unexpected. We gave him the ruby to re-cut. That is our way, you understand. It is much easier to sell on smaller gems than a famed large piece. However, Fanshawe recognised the piece and refused. There was wild talk of returning it to its owner and of wanting no more to do with us. He swore that he would tell no one of our past activities if we complied, but I had to be certain. The same applied to Harding of course. I was absent that night when he made his veiled threats. Handyman took matters into his own hands and, as usual, bungled it. By the time I arrived, the deed was done, much to my dissatisfaction."

"It was near dawn, sir," said Jeffreys defensively. No wonder, considering what had happened to the architect of the tragedy. "We couldn't take him out of the club without being seen, so Major Handyman, he said we should leave him here, make it look like one of the trophies had risen from the dead and killed him."

"Cretin that he was," muttered Stanhope. "He brought the police – and you – to our very door. And for what? Harding knew practically nothing. What he did tell us was that we had another spy in our midst. We watched Finsbury very closely after that. Then Jeffreys heard him talking to you. We couldn't let him go to the police."

"So you killed him."

"The boys dealt with that," he said, gesturing to the Salisbury twins.

"Like strangling a chicken it were," said Maurice, giggling.

"And then what to do with you. I hoped that your encounter with the dog would have persuaded you to keep your distance. Yet here you are." The sickly smile faded from his features. "Where are my diamonds, Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head.

"I understand that this must be a very trying time for you, but do try to listen," said he, almost too reasonably. "The injury you sustained caused a puncture to your lung. Air is currently leaking into your pleural cavity with no means of escape. Even as we speak, your heart is being compressed by the pressure in your chest. In the shortness of time, you will die, but not before considerable agonies. If I remove the knife, which prevents the air's escape, you will breathe freely again. I shall do that when you tell me what I want to know."

I will not deny that it was tempting. My mind was awhirl, flitting from one fancy to another like a moth with a broken wing. I gathered what concentration I could and forced myself to form the words that spoke my defiance.

"You will kill me in either case," I managed to whisper.

"But there are ways to die, Mr Holmes. Tell me and you need not suffer. It will be quick, and they will find you here with Major Handyman, locked in a duel that ended with his fatally wounding you and you shooting him. All very neat and tidy, requiring no effort from the police at all. Now," said he, his voice becoming thick with menace, "where are my diamonds?"

I was spared the necessity of having to answer. The sound of distant shouts and the thud of running boots heralded the arrival of the official forces. As much as I abhor a cliché, to say that it was not a moment too soon was entirely true in this instance.

Jeffreys ran to secure the door, too late to stop the headlong rush of several burly constables, who bowled him to the floor and subdued him with their combined weight. Horace and Maurice squealed and fled, making the same mistake as I had in assuming that escape was to be found by other means than the only door. Cornered, they began to cry and whimper as they were surrounded and the cuffs were fastened about their wrists.

Unlike his accomplices, Major Stanhope did not try to run. If anything, he seemed vaguely disappointed, whether that he had been denied the pleasure of extracting the information he wanted from me or because he had been caught. I saw the malice drain from his face, to be replaced with something akin to resignation.

"Here," said he, his gaze never wavering from my face, "and no further."

With these enigmatic words, he rose to his feet to face the swarm of constables and the officer who came to meet him with utmost contempt and unwavering dignity.

Amidst the noise and bustle, I caught Lestrade's inimitable tones. "What the devil is going on here?" he was demanding. "Mr Holmes, are you all right, sir?"

The second time his voice had been closer. I opened my eyes to find him kneeling at my side, his eyes wide with alarm and his gaze moving between my face and the hilt of the knife that protruded from my side.

The sound that came from my mouth when I tried to reply was as unlike mine as was humanly possible. A hoarse whisper, compelling Lestrade to draw nearer, given a little more strength by my determination that if I should not survive, then the names of the murderers of Harding, Finsbury, Sommers and Fanshawe should not go with me to the grave.

"Don't you worry yourself about that now, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade. He turned away to bark a command over his shoulder. "You, Sergeant, there's a Doctors' Club not five minutes down the road. You go in there and get a doctor – arrest one if you have to – and get back here as quick as you can."

I was aware of his departure and of Lestrade telling the constables to remove Stanhope, but at a distance, as though a veil was falling between me and the rest of the world. My grip on consciousness was starting to dissolve. I would be beyond the help of any physician unless I intervened to alleviate my condition.

I sought and found Lestrade's hand, and closed his fingers around the hilt of the knife. "Pull it out," I croaked.

"Is that wise?"

I nodded as best I could. An age of indecision seemed to plague him, during which my breath grew shorter and the room seemed to grow a little greyer. Finally, to my immense relief, he decided to take my advice. His grip tightened, and he pulled.

To his credit, it was quick. That did not stop it hurting like blazes. The effect, however, outweighed the discomfort. The pressure eased as my chest deflated, and I took a great, gulping breath, hearing, as I did so, the disagreeable sound of air being sucked through the wound in my side. The rush of oxygen was dizzying, and black circles danced on the edge of my vision before abating as my senses reasserted themselves. When they did, I found that my shirt was open and a constable was pressing a large handkerchief to my side under Lestrade's careful supervision.

When he saw that my eyes were open, he quickly suppressed his concern, and his features folded into a frown of disapproval.

"I thought we'd agreed that you wouldn't do anything rash," he admonished me. "Furthermore, you promised not to come to this accursed place."

Speaking was a good deal easier, though not without certain discomforts. "Well, I did. You took your time getting here."

"That Mrs Dubois wasn't the easiest woman I've ever had to deal with. Near bit off Constable Ross's ear she did. However, once we had the derbies on her, she was more than willing to tell us all she knew." His gaze travelled to the covered corpse. "Shame about Major Handyman."

"Only from the point of view that I would have liked to see him stand trial, Inspector. He killed Michael Harding."

"Did he? Who killed him?"

"Major Stanhope. He shot him." An appalling thought struck me. "He still has the gun. You must—"

The warning came too late. To our ears came the distant sound of a pistol shot. A moment later, a constable came haring in to inform the Inspector that Major Stanhope was dead by his own hand.

"Pulled a gun out of nowhere, sir," said he. "Shot himself through the head he did. There was nothing we could do."

Lestrade's frown darkened. "You should have searched him. Consider yourself extremely fortunate that he didn't try to shoot you, Constable."

While he lectured the unfortunate fellow, I was aware that the pressure was mounting again in my chest. I pushed the hand that held the cloth away from my side and knew a moment of relief.

"I wouldn't do that, sir, if I was you," said the constable. "You're losing a fair amount of blood."

"The lesser of two evils," I explained. "I can either bleed or suffocate."

There was a great deal of truth in what he said, however. The rush of oxygen to my starved brain coupled with my growing weakness left me addled and faint. Lacking the strength to support my own weight, I began to slide down the wall, powerless to halt my descent.

"Steady," said Lestrade, catching me before I hit the floor. He pulled off his coat, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it under my head. "Where's that doctor?" he said vehemently. "Hold on there, sir. You can't die on my watch. I'll have enough paperwork to deal with as it is without you pegging out too." The smile he offered me was tight with concern. "Besides, you still owe me two quid."

I summoned up the energy to delve into my trouser pocket, and came up with the five pound note for which I had traded my violin with the pawnbroker.

Lestrade's expression was strained. "I can't accept this. It's far too much."

Further debate was denied, for the sergeant chose that moment to return with a gentleman who sported a face red with fury and an elaborate moustache that fairly bristled with his indignation.

"Are you in charge here?" he demanded. "What is the meaning of this?"

Lestrade rose to meet him. "Are you a doctor?"

"Indeed I am, sir, indeed I am. I was dragged from my club by this young whippersnapper here on pain of arrest because some fool was injured. What do you say to that, sir?"

"I say we'll reimburse you for the inconvenience," said Lestrade. "Now, please, Dr…?"

"Woodford," said he grudgingly.

"Dr Woodford, this young man requires attention."

Concentrating on what was happening around me was too much effort. I drifted on a sea of dimming colours and distant words. Phrases like 'a nasty wound' and my situation 'not looking good' wafted around the edge of my comprehension. My one abiding memory before I passed into unconsciousness was that Dr Woodford had very dirty fingernails. I supposed that if I ever opened my eyes again, I would be fortunate indeed.

* * *

_I'm not spoiling the surprise too much by saying that young Mr Holmes does live to fight another day, no thanks to the doctor with unclean hands._

_We'll catch up with him in Chapter Twenty! _


	21. Chapter Twenty

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Chapter Twenty**

Ten days passed in a feverish stupor before I opened my eyes to find myself in a hospital ward with a wheezy old man with kidney stones to my left and a coffin propped up against the wall to my right. My recovery appeared to inconvenience a good many people, not least the Chief Surgeon, who had laid a fair wager on my expiring within a week of my admittance, and as a result was out of pocket, so he told me, to the tune of twenty pounds.

Even more vexing to him was the question of the amount owed to the coffin-maker for his services, which, he said, the hospital was liable for, on account of my not taking up occupancy. He suggested I should foot the bill. I objected to this on several grounds.

Firstly, I could hardly be expected to pay for a thing which I had expressly _not_ ordered nor had every expectation of not using for some time; and secondly, because the interior had been lined with a dull yellow ribbed satin material of inferior quality. I had no intention, said I, of going to my eternal rest in anything but white silk – in short, I would not be seen dead in cream satin.

I made these comments with the lightest of touches, but the Chief Surgeon was a man curiously lacking in humour. According to his considered opinion, I was lucky to be alive at all. On that point, I could not disagree with him. My injuries had been clean enough when inflicted, my later care less so. The dirty nails of Dr Woodford had indeed been as injurious to my health as I had feared.

For ten days, I had inhabited a nightmare landscape, given life by a fevered brain. Dogs of every shape and size had bounded across the field of my imagination, dripping diamond saliva from their jaws. Ghouls on unicorns rose up to drive their steeds against me and prick me with their dagger-like horns. I had vague remembrances of fighting against my choral-induced state to surface in a world populated by shadowy figures that had pressed me to the bed and forced sleep upon me.

I had given up trying to discern where fantasy ended and reality began. When I had accepted this, then was I finally able to slip my chains. I had bruised, sore, tormented by a persistent dry cough, and a good twelve pounds lighter.

The only good thing to emerge from my ordeal was that my injuries were near healed. Another few days would see my departure from the attentions of pretty nurses and over-familiar patients. The elderly gentleman in the bed next to mine was particularly trying, being given to making hints about how difficult it was to get a good coffin these days and how fortunate he consider himself if he were to be buried in anything so fine.

In the end, I suggested he take it with him when he left. This pleased him immensely, and he said he would set it up in his living room as a talking point for the neighbours until the time came for its appointed use. I had no objections, nor indeed did the other members of the ward, when he offered to stow the thing out of sight underneath his bed and used it as a receptacle for his chamber pot and personal possessions.

Insensible as I had been, I knew nothing of what had happened following my collapse at the Tankerville Club. The nurse could tell me only that I had been brought in as an emergency case and had not been expected to last the night. She could tell me nothing of the daily news, except that Benetfink and Co. of Cheapside were having a sale – an event I was in no position to take advantage of – and furthermore seemed reluctant to provide me with a quality newspaper on the grounds that I needed my rest.

After being told this for the fiftieth time, I confided my woes to my coffin-minded friend alongside, who found an answer to my problem by producing some suspiciously square-shaped newspaper cuttings. I later discovered that he had purloined them from the caretaker's privy, a fact which I had known before might have dissuaded me from their careful scrutiny. As it transpired, the most interesting parts had vanished, leaving me with lengthy advertisements for ladies' clothing and gentlemen's outfitters.

I thought I must surely go mad with frustration until I was gratified to find that I had not been entirely forgotten. Sunday afternoon before my discharge brought the welcome sight of Inspector Lestrade, bearing news and a large bag from which came the occasional waft of something heavily seasoned with onions.

"Well," said he, smiling affably, "you're alive then, Mr Holmes."

"So it would appear, Inspector. Your exile to Rutland has been delayed also, I see."

He took the chair at my bedside. "Postponed, indefinitely I should say. Clearing up a whole bevy of murders probably had something to do with it." He brightened. "Best of all, it put that Gregson's nose out of joint, I can tell you. Apple of the Chief Super's eye he may be, but it's the results that tell in the end, and he was the one who went and arrested the wrong man."

He seemed to have conveniently forgotten the not insignificant role I had played in the affair. Most notably, I noticed no mention of my name in the account given in the _The Times's_ leader of a week ago that Lestrade produced for my inspection. Not that I begrudged him his victory over his rival; without his assistance that night, I knew I would not have the luxury of wallowing in indignation as I was minded to do now.

"You did well, Inspector," I said, managing to be graceful in defeat.

"Well, it's not everyday we get to clear up five murders in one day: Sommers, Fanshawe, Harding, Finsbury and Major Handyman too," said he, counting the names on his fingers. "The Commissioner was well pleased. Told the Chief Super he'd be a fool to send me up north, so…" He gave a smug, toothy grin. "Here I am."

"Much to Mrs Lestrade's approval, no doubt."

"Oh, yes, she's well happy. Especially now she and the baby won't have to travel."

Events had indeed moved apace while I had slumbered. "I take it that congratulations are in order?"

He nodded, beaming as much as any proud father was wont to do. "He's a bonny lad, fit as a fiddle and a fine pair of lungs on him. The wife's having a few days' rest, so her mother's moved in to help out with the children till she gets back on her feet."

I gathered this latter remark was the one responsible for the pained look that had come to his face.

"I told her I was visiting someone laid up in hospital this afternoon and she insisted I brought some of this," said he, placing the bag with its ominous smell on the bed. He produced an earthenware pot and removed the lid with a flourish. "She's got her faults, the mother-in-law, but she's a decent cook, I'll give her that."

I peered at the contents of the pot, feeling my nostrils tinge at the overwhelming smell of stewed vegetables and my sight assaulted by a collection of unremarkable grey and brown lumps wallowing in murky gravy. "What is it?" I asked suspiciously.

"Cockaleekie soup," said he with some degree of pride. "Saves lives that does."

He had evidently gone to some trouble and consideration on my part, and I had no desire to cause offence. I steeled myself, took the spoon he held out to me, and trusted that I was not about to delay my recovery through the ingestion of inedible substances. Several spoonfuls were enough to satisfy him, after which I was able to bow out with good grace, claiming that I had eaten earlier. I offered him the remainder and he set about it with gusto while I browsed the newspapers he had brought.

"'_Scandal at the Tankerville'_," I read aloud. "Outrage would be a better word. They all knew, Inspector."

He nodded. "That's what I told the Commissioner. He said we couldn't go arresting the whole club, especially now half of them have shipped out with their regiments. Besides, indifference isn't a crime, Mr Holmes."

"It should be." I turned my attention back to the paper. "This reference to 'other members of the gang' – I take it they are referring to the Salisbury twins, Jeffreys and Madame Dubois?"

"Oh, she weren't no madam," said Lestrade between mouthfuls. "And she weren't French either. Jenny Clark is her real name, although she goes by Jane Clarkson or Janey Clarkenwell or whatever takes her fancy at the time. Turns out that our friends in Cardiff have been looking for her ever since she made off with an old lady's jewellery a couple of years back. She had a good thing going, our Jenny, and always worked to the same plan: she'd befriend an old dear who had a few quid in the bank, made herself indispensible, then when she hold of the keys to the safe, she helped herself and vanished."

"And her connection to Major Handyman?"

"She says he recruited her to do some thieving for him. They'd do the round of the jewellers in Hatton Garden, picking out likely candidates."

"Yes, they were seen. What of their accomplices?"

"She said her only contact was Handyman. Said she didn't know anything about none of the others. Jeffreys told the same story."

"He knew that Stanhope was involved."

"Ah, but that's all he knew, so he said." Lestrade took a moment to chew thoughtfully on his soup. "He's another one going under an assumed name. I thought he looked familiar, but for the life of me I couldn't place him. It only came to me when we had him down at the station: John Parker's his name. Nasty bit of work too. Used to run with a gang of garrotters as a nipper. Seems he's gone up in the world of crime since then. Well, this business'll see him put away for a while."

"On what charge?"

"Handling. By his own admission, he used to take the stolen gems to and from the cutters."

I gave him a sharp look. "He confessed?"

Lestrade nodded. "Said he wasn't going to be had up for no murders. Said he was willing to do his time for what he had done, but no more than that."

"He was present when Sommers was killed."

Another spoonful of soup vanished into Lestrade's mouth. "Any witnesses to that?"

"Stanhope told me."

"Hearsay. The courts' don't go for that so much these days. Stanhope's dead, so he can't confirm or deny it."

"I suppose the same applies to Horace and Maurice Salisbury?"

"No, we've got Parker's testimony about their role in the affair. An unpleasant pair, by all accounts. They 'assisted' Handyman in his torture of Michael Harding, and killed Finsbury as well. Seemed quite proud of that, they did."

"The gallows for them then."

Lestrade shook his head. "I doubt that, Mr Holmes. I dare say their destination is more likely to be Broadmoor. Those two aren't right in the head."

"Right enough when they hanged poor Finsbury."

"Well, that's the decision of the court, not mine," said Lestrade, his tone suggesting the outcome he would have preferred. "I'm content with the knowledge that we've put a stop to the goings-on of a nasty gang of diamond thieves, and got a fair few of their accomplices under lock and key."

"Presumably you mean the diamond cutter they employed to re-cut the stones and the buyers?"

"All old faces, each and every one of them. The cutter threw his hands up to it as soon as I confronted him. Claimed he did his job and got paid – no more than that. He's a sharp one, him, and crooked as a donkey's back leg. As for the buyer, I had an instinct as to who the elderly gent, Enderby, really was and I was right – none other than my old friend Harold Northcote. He's a middle man between the buyer and the seller, paid to keep his mouth shut when things go wrong, so we didn't get much out of him. We'll have to wait awhile, see if prison changes his mind about telling us who he sold the stones on to." He chuckled. "I'd wager there were a few of them Hatton Garden diamond merchants on his list though. I've never seen so many nervous people when I went round there asking questions about stolen diamonds."

"What of the stones I hid in the leopard? You did find them?"

He nodded. "Very good hiding place, if I might say so, sir. You might be interested to know that they belonged to a Mrs Forthby-Young, who had her diamond necklace pinched last week when she was at the opera. Quite upset she was when we returned them to her, especially as the big stone had been turned into six smaller ones."

"And the money?" I asked.

"Well, now that's the interesting thing. Handyman and Stanhope were well-off – both were in receipt of some large sums of money from time to time – but not as much as you'd expect from an operation of this nature."

"Suggesting that the lion's share was going elsewhere," I remarked, recalling the heated conversation that had ended with Stanhope shooting Handyman. "Did any of the people you arrested make reference to someone called the 'Professor'?"

Lestrade looked bemused. "We're up to our necks in any number of petty villains, and you want to go looking for some college type? Hardly likely, is it, Mr Holmes?"

"Any more than the possibility that two military men and a respectable London club could be involved in such activities," I retorted. "No, Lestrade, there was more to this. Stanhope referred to another, someone for whom he was ready to kill for, someone for whom he was prepared to sacrifice of own life." The memory of his last words crept back into my mind. "'Here, and no further', he told me. I understand now. He meant that it would end with him. And he was right. It has."

I caught Lestrade watching me closely, his expression unreadable. "Well, sir, I guess we'll never know for certain. If this fellow is out there, as you suggest, then I dare say we've not heard the last of him."

"I dare say not." I met Lestrade's gaze. "If he is, then I'll find him, Inspector, if it's the last thing I do."

"Don't say that, sir. Sounds too much like tempting fate, what with your habit of getting yourself into trouble. Which reminds me." He delved into his coat pocket and took out a fat white envelope, which he passed to me. "From Major Prendergast, with his thanks. He was well pleased with the outcome, now that he has been exonerated and his reputation restored, and to that end I suggested he might like to make a small donation towards your expenses, seeing how you ended up in here on his account."

"_Solely_ his account?" I said, offering him a knowing smile. "I seem to remember we had an agreement."

"I never asked you to tackle them on your own. And, while we're on the subject, who was that scruffy urchin you sent round to my house? You do know he helped himself to my brass door knocker."

"Did he? How unfortunate for you." I opened the envelope and found seven crisp ten-pound notes within. "The Major has been too generous."

"You earned it, sir."

I shook my head. "Fifty pounds of this belongs to Michael Harding. He was…" I allowed myself a fleeting smile. "A good man, and such a rarity should be valued."

Lestrade did not look convinced. "Whatever you say, Mr Holmes. This, though, does belong to you." He produced a five-pound note. Several rust-coloured stains identified it as the one I had given him that fateful night. "The wife did her best to get the blood out. Didn't come up too badly as it happened."

"Keep it, Inspector. I meant what I said about paying my debts in full."

"What with what you did at that club, Mr Holmes, I'd say we were square. I did warn you against taking unnecessary risks."

"Indeed you did. The responsibility for what happened is mine."

"All the same," said he, "I wouldn't feel right taking what didn't belong to me." He drew three pounds from his pocket and exchanged the notes for the five. "Now we're even. Don't spend it all at once."

"I dare say the hospital fees will make a dent in this."

He seemed mildly taken aback. "Hadn't you heard, sir? Your brother took care of that side of things."

Considering the cloud under which we had parted, and his carrying through his threat to have me barred from our father's meagre legacy, I was greatly surprised to hear that Mycroft had been at all interested in my plight.

"He did?" I queried, aghast. "You actually met him?"

"Well, no, not in person. He sent _someone_ round," he added with emphasis. "An official sort from the look of him. You could see it pained him, having to deal with ordinary people. He knew what he was doing though, I'll give him that much. He had you moved here with the instructions that no expense was to be spared in saving your life."

Given that the hospital staff had been laying wagers against my survival, I had to wonder if he had got value for money.

"Did he take my things too? I seem to be lacking my clothes."

Lestrade nodded. "He took everything, but he did say when you were ready to leave to send word to your tailor. Oh, and he said your brother wanted a word."

Knowing Mycroft, that word was likely to be neither warm nor brotherly.

"Well, Mr Holmes, if that's all, I'll be saying goodbye," said he, rising. "Glad to see you looking better."

I wondered if I should risk a mirror. "I could hardly look any worse, Inspector."

"You'll be up and about on your feet in no time." He gathered up his things and was about to leave when he paused for a moment. "I dare say it'll be a long while before I encounter any more leopards or ghosts or unicorns, but if I do come across a case that's a little out of the ordinary…"

"Yes, you may," I said, pre-empting his question. "Only, in future I intend to confine my assistance to the role I have appointed for myself, namely that of a private _consulting_ detective. I have no intention of masquerading as a servant for anyone ever again, not even," I added, firmly, "on pain of exile to Rutland!"

* * *

_Well, he had to be all right, didn't he? So, with everything wrapped up, we're almost at the end. But, what about Mycroft, I hear you say, and the small question of a rather major brotherly falling out?_

_Let's if they can resolve their differences in the Epilogue! _


	22. Epilogue

_**The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard**_

**Epilogue**

A few days after Lestrade's visit, it was strongly suggested that it was time I thought about vacating my hospital bed. According to the Chief Surgeon, I was healed as much as I was ever likely to be; the pink scar on my side would serve, so he said, as a permanent reminder to me to be more careful in the future.

His final words of advice, which seemed to be standard whatever the complaint, ran along the lines of my consuming a bottle of whisky every day and hiring of pretty nurse to tend to my needs. This last he said with a knowing wink, as though to suggest that this was the course of treatment he regularly followed himself. If so, then his careworn appearance did not offer much by way of recommendation. I thanked him for his consideration, and left without delay.

I returned to Montague Street in low spirits, expecting to find a nagging landlady on the doorstep and my things long since distributed to the rag-and-bone men. I was pleasantly surprised to find that neither were the case.

My landlady was all smiles and consolation. She inquired constantly about my state of health and asked more than once if there was anything I needed. I perceived that Mycroft's influence lay behind this transformation, a suspicion that was confirmed when she remarked what a nice gentleman he was, her countenance aglow with admiration as she said it. I gathered that he had achieved this rare feat through the liberal application of money and had not been there in person – for the simple reason that no one who has had the misfortune to meet Mycroft has ever thought him 'a nice gentleman'.

More gratifying was what awaited me in my rooms. On the table lay a violin case, and an inspection of the contents settled my mind that it was indeed the Stradivarius I had pawned, now returned to me in perfect condition. With the three days' grace long passed, I had imagined it lost forever. Mycroft's agent had performed admirably, having found the pawnbroker's slip in my pocket and redeemed the instrument for me.

My brother's contribution in this endeavour consisted entirely of a tersely-worded note.

"_If you are reading this, then you are certainly recovered enough to call upon me at Whitehall at your earliest possible convenience."_

Evidently, we were still talking, although I fancied Mycroft envisaged that our interview would involve a lengthy lecture from him and a meek submission from me. The choice of location confirmed that, and I could already foresee the lines of our discussion. The merits of a respectable and stable occupation would be exhorted and as usual I would have to stand my ground.

Granted, my last case had ended in my near demise, but I did not consider that to be indicative of failure. Man will err while yet he strives, to paraphrase Goethe.

I could deny, however, that there were certain issues which needed to be resolved, not least the question of his high-handed behaviour of late in dispossessing me of certain hereditary rights. Before facing the wrath of Mycroft, I had a duty to perform. I gathered up my things, barricaded myself against the cold and took a cab first to Lincoln's Inn and then onto Soho.

The house I sought lay in the centre of Seven Dials, jostled by stews and gin palaces. The cabman refused to take me into the heart of the reeking rabbit-warren of courtyards and alleys, and drove his steed away at a goodly clip before the scavenging children could wrench the shoes from the horse's hooves.

I picked my way through the foul, narrow ways, avoiding drunken men, who were already propped up this early in the day against walls bearing posters for cheap entertainments and public announcements. Middle-aged women, red-cheeked and pinched from the cold, pawed at passers-by, making dubious claims about their years in an attempt to add appeal to their faded charms.

This, the worst of the so-called 'Rookeries' – the slums where the poor crowded thirty or more to a house – stank of human misery and despair, as malodorous as the effluent and dead cats that lay half-frozen in the gutters, offering scant interest to dogs and half-naked children alike. The clean, respectable streets where the genteel promenaded lay not half a mile away, but it could have been a million miles for all these people knew of it.

I fancied that I understood, having known what it was to have to abase myself to the needs of others in order to earn a living. Yet to believe this was to deceive myself in the worst possible manner.

I had played a role, flirting with the issues that affected these people every day of their lives whilst secure in the knowledge that I had only to shed my disguise to step back into my own comfortable existence. I had not known what it was to live in fear of unemployment, the despair of returning empty-handed to hungry children or the pain of separation from loved ones that entry into the workhouse would bring.

I had only to walk away to leave these wretched streets far behind me; the majority of the people here, watching me with resentful, distrustful eyes, never would. I was a fraud, worse than the condescending rich, expecting to receive a beggar's gratitude and prayers for a token penny. I deserved their scorn, as much as they deserved my pity. The only salve to my conscience was that for one amongst this multitude, I brought glad tidings.

My destination was at the end of an alley, which opened out into a cramped court, festering with dirt, miasmic odours and a wilderness of vermin. Bare-foot infants stamped on frosted pools of human excrement, laughing in delight as the ice cracked to splash freezing slime up their legs. Poles draped with washing, patrolled by pigeons as skinny as the people themselves, protruded from every casement. From behind broken panes wary eyes paused to watch the newcomer in their midst.

Footsteps sounded from within in answer to my knock. A moment later, the door opened and Miss Emily Rush appeared, her hands red and bleeding from their constant immersion in cold water, and her face registering her shock at seeing me.

"Mr Holmes." A blush of colour touched her cheeks. "Whatever are you doing here, sir?"

"I must talk with you," I said. Several women had emerged from the house opposite to stare at us. "May I come inside?"

She led me in to a small parlour festooned with shirts and sheets. The atmosphere was oppressive, rendered close and steamy by the acres of wet washing drying before the meagre fire. Seated to one side of the fireplace was a sunken-eyed child of about eight years of age. A pile of socks lay on her lap, which she was employed in darning.

As fragile as gossamer, she presented the frightening appearance of a living skeleton, so closely did her skin cling to her emaciated frame. This, I gathered, was the younger sister, the child suffering from consumption for whom my last pound had bought medicine.

"How may I help you, sir?" asked Miss Rush.

She kept her eyes averted and had contrived to put as much distance between us as the cramped conditions would allow. As outside, we were under close scrutiny, this time in the form of an elderly woman stuffing a mattress with chicken feathers and no fewer than ten young children, pricking fingers on needles as they sewed buttons onto shirts.

"Your sister?" I inquired, gesturing to the child beside the fire.

A glow of pride touched her pained eyes. "Yes, that's my Alice." Then in a louder voice to the child: "This is Mr Henry Holmes, what lent me the money for your medicine."

It seemed to take the child every ounce of strength to raise a smile.

"I'll pay you back, Mr Holmes," said Miss Rush with sincerity that I did not doubt was genuine, but was ill-matched by her income.

I waved the offer aside. "Sherlock," I said instead. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Miss Rush. Not Henry."

It mattered little now, but it felt important to shed Henry in his entirety. While a single trace remained of the man, I would never be entirely free of my creation.

"Shame," said she. "I thought Henry suited you. Though looking at you now, you look every inch the proper toff, sir. I always knew you weren't no ordinary steward."

I smiled in acknowledgement of her insight. "How did you know?"

"Your hands, sir. You ain't never done no hard work with nice hands like that."

I considered my palms and the pinkish skin where my burned flesh was healing. I had thought, arrogantly, that a pair of glasses and a grovelling manner was all that was needed to become someone else. It is always a sobering revelation to realise one is not as clever as one thought.

"You're quite correct, Miss Rush. I am a private consulting detective. I came to the Tankerville to investigate Michael Harding's death."

"You did that, sir," said she. "They told me what happened and how you near died because of it."

"Not my finest hour," I conceded.

"Oh, no, sir, that's not what I meant. You gave my Michael justice. I thank you for that, Mr Holmes. Michael would too, if he was here, God rest his soul."

The mention of the murdered man's name reminded me of the reason for my visit. "Miss Rush, is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Here?" she said with an uncertain glance at the gathering behind us.

"I meant, alone."

Too late, I realised how my remark could be misconstrued. Her face reddened. The elderly woman shook her head and muttered something disparaging.

"I always knew you'd end up on the streets, Emily," said she. "If your old Mother could see you now—"

"Don't you start, Mrs Craddock; I'm a good girl, I am, and always shall be. Mr Holmes here is only a friend." She took my arm and led me over to the door. "Why've you come here, sir?" she hissed. "What is it you want?"

Since this corner appeared to be the best she could provide by way of privacy under the circumstances, I lowered my voice and hoped our disapproving chaperone suffered from deafness.

"It is because of Mr Harding that I am here," I explained. "Had he lived, he was due to receive a not inconsiderable sum. Now he is dead, the money has come to me. And I in turn pass it to you, as he would have wished."

"How much?"

"Fifty pounds."

She gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth.

"It was Harding's gift to you," I continued, "enough for you to be able to leave this place, Miss Rush, and tend your sister."

Her face crumpled and tears began to creep down her cheeks. "He always said he wanted to take me away from here. I thank you, sir, but I can't accept it. That money's tainted with Michael's blood. It's what they killed him for. He died because he wanted to get that money for me."

I shook my head. "The blame for what befell him does not lie at your door." I took a deep breath and lowered my voice to barely a whisper. "I believe he held you in high regard, Miss Rush, and intended to marry you. Because of that, I cannot in all good conscience keep the money. He would have wanted you to have it."

She was crying bitterly now. What was needed was an arm of support and words of condolence and comfort. Instead we stood, awkward and distant, aware that we were still watched, as I waited for her to dry her tears and listen to what I had to say.

"I have left the money with my solicitors, Young, Young and Young," I explained. "Call on them at your convenience at their offices in Lincoln's Inn and they will help you with whatever you decide to do."

She scrubbed at her tears with the heel of her hand. "Brighton, that's where Michael always said we should go. He said the air was good there for Alice's chest. He said I'd get work in a shop down there, and we could have a nice little room all to ourselves. It was our dream, Mr Holmes."

"An excellent one, Miss Rush. When will you go?"

She glanced at the child and the acres of laundry that littered the room. "I can't leave yet," said she. "There's still another three piles of washing and I daren't be late with it."

"Tomorrow then."

A long pause ensued. "When Alice is better, Mr Holmes. Look at the poor girl – she looks like she'd break into a hundred pieces if I tried to move her out of this place. No, we'll go when she's stronger and the weather is warmer."

"Miss Rush, you should not delay," I urged.

The smile that came to her face was tinged with sadness. "We've been here this long, Mr Holmes. The money'll keep, and it'll come in handy, what with the cost of Alice's medicine. A few more weeks here won't hurt us none."

Had words been sufficient to change her mind, I would have tried to persuade her otherwise. I saw, however, that further discussion was futile. I knew that a few more weeks would stretch into a month and then another and another. Miss Emily Rush and her sister would not leave, not because they lacked the means, but rather the courage. A bird may be caged for so long that even when the door is thrown open it will not venture forth.

And whether here or Brighton, the outcome would be the same: the child would die. What then for her elder sister? With no skills and no prospects, she would return to the drudgery she had always known and the people with whom she had spent her whole life. There would be no brave new world for the Rush sisters; Seven Dials would never relinquish its hold, whilst it surrounded them with all that was safe and familiar.

I took my leave, feeling more disheartened than when I had arrived. I had thought I was helping; instead I was not sure that I had made matters worse. No amount of money would save the dying child nor console the grieving sister. I had deluded myself into believing that philanthropy alone was enough – but then, as Mycroft had delighted in telling me, in many ways, I was as unworldly as a babe in arms.

I brooded on this as I wended my way to Whitehall. In light of events, I had been forced to concede that my brother's words on the night of our disagreement had contained more than a grain of truth. I was not so gullible to believe that Mycroft had chanced upon an accurate reading of the situation by accident or that a simple clerk in a nameless government department was privy to sensitive information about the criminal activities of an outwardly respectable London club.

What was evident to me was that he had known more than he had been prepared to tell me. He had admitted that much. Instead of confiding in me, he had employed insults and threats. And then, when he had failed to turn me to his way of thinking, like the petulant sibling he was, he had retaliated with the derisory shilling. If he now expected to find me humbled by my experience, he was in for a rude awakening.

Not knowing where to find him, I presented myself at the door of Westminster Hall. The policeman on duty sent for an official, who made vague noises and disappeared. In his place came another official, of a higher rank if his imperious manner was any indicator of status. He appraised me with a critical eye and then directed me to the Banqueting House, where I was reliably informed that my brother was expecting me.

Another policeman took another round of convincing, although the portly official who came to escort me within accepted my identity without question. From this, I suspected this was the gentleman sent by my brother to oversee my hospitalisation and settle matters with my landlady. When in reply to my thanking him for the return of my violin he gave a small bow, I knew my deduction had been correct.

I was shown in to the great double cube of the interior, resplendent with its white walls and columns, and the painted ceiling, its swirling clouds, gods and old kings captured for posterity amid acres of gold leaf. There, I was left by a window near the door to await my brother's convenience.

I recognised his back amidst the jumble of gentleman at the further end of the room. All were studying something intently on the table before them, and I gathered that I was to be kept waiting, as befitted my brother's inflated sense of self-worth.

My attention turned to the window and the view beyond. For over two centuries had this building had kept its vigil, witness to the execution of kings and the demise of even older structures around it. One may speak of history as an abstract concept and of people distanced by time, but in some places is one aware of the very presence of the past, as though the walls contain a dim memory of bygone days to be conjured up when required.

I wondered at those who had stood in my place and had looked out on this same view. The age may have changed, but how much remained the same. The yells of cabmen echoed down the busy street, pedestrians hurried along the crowded pavement, and life continued its daily round in the shadow of this venerable building as it had always done and would continue to do so, long after I was gone. There is something to be said for permanence in changing times, for fixed points that endure whatever else befalls the world around them – if such virtues could be found in people, then how much more tolerable life would be.

"'There is nothing in this world constant, but inconstancy'," came an intrusive voice that cut through my musings. "I dare say that is true enough, but then Swift never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Sherlock."

I had not been aware of his approach. For one so large, Mycroft possessed a lightness of step that bestowed upon him an almost feline stealth. As usual, he presumed that I had no objection to his reading my thoughts, a habit which in truth has always rather vexed me. We regarded each other, he with an air of superiority, me with simmering contumacy, each daring the other to weaken and be the first to speak. That day I achieved the impossible and forced my brother to take the initiative.

"You came," he stated.

"You summoned me; I am here."

"Willingly?"

"I was not dragged here in handcuffs, if that is what you mean."

This remark made little impression on him. "I see your peculiar sense of humour has survived your recent ordeal intact, even if you did not."

"I am told I am quite recovered. Your money was well spent."

"Evidently." His gaze flicked over my person. "Am I to assume that that is all I am to receive by either way of gratitude or apology?"

"As regards gratitude, I did not ask for your assistance. As to the other, I deny knowledge of anything for which I have reason to make apology."

Mycroft sighed. "As I feared, this experience has brought about no change in you, Sherlock. You have learned nothing."

"I have learned," I said with care, "that there is nothing my brother would not sacrifice for the sake of a principle." I fixed him with an accusing look. "You knew, Mycroft. You knew what was happening at the Tankerville and you said nothing."

A long moment paused before he replied. "Yes, I did."

"You do not deny it?"

"Why ever should I, since you have reasoned the thing for yourself. I do refute, absolutely, your claim that I said nothing. I told you to leave, Sherlock."

"Without explanation!"

"Had I enlightened you as to the nature of the situation," he said calmly in the face of my hostility, "would you have condescended to come with me?"

I considered. "No."

"Well, then, there was nothing to be gained by it."

"Men died, Mycroft."

"And how you have not been counted amongst their number heaven only knows," he retorted. "You were told not to meddle, Sherlock. As usual, you laboured under the delusion that you knew better. I said you would have to accept the consequences, and yet it is I who has been inconvenienced in having to bring order to the chaos that _you_ have created!"

His face was growing redder by the minute as he continued with his tirade.

"Handyman and Stanhope were nothing, mere links in a chain. In time, we would have been able to trace their activities back to their paymaster. Had I wanted them exposed, I would not have told the Chief Superintendant to send a scapegoat to deal with the matter."

Whatever my opinion of Lestrade, I fairly bristled to hear a man's life dismissed so callously. "That scapegoat has a family, Mycroft."

"That is immaterial. I never expected him to go running to you. After my conversation with you, when I saw that you were determined to seek the truth whatever the cost, I had no choice but to have him replaced with that Gregson fellow. He at least did what he was told and brought the case to a speedy conclusion. Would that you had followed the same course. Now months of work are in ruins, and it is entirely due to your rash and foolish actions!"

I stared at him, feeling for the first time that perhaps I did not know him at all. When I had accused him of knowing the danger of the situation, when he had admitted as much that night of our quarrel, I had not expected that knowledge to be of this nature.

"Mycroft, what is that you do?"

His features softened. "You ask me that _now_."

"Are you prepared to tell me?"

"Is it conditional on our continued good relations?"

"Do we have any?" I spoke in anger and regretted it when I saw a momentary tightening of the lines around his eyes. "No, Mycroft, it is not. All the same, I should prefer to be taken into your confidence. Perhaps then I could avoid becoming an inconvenience to you again in the future."

He inclined his head. "Then know you shall, for despite what you may think I do trust your discretion. I have a somewhat unique position, one which, like yourself, I have largely created for myself, born from that somewhat eccentric trait peculiar to our family, whereby I find myself endowed with an extraordinary and sometimes burdensome capacity for the assimilation and retention of information, whether of use or not."

"You mean you have a good memory," said I glibly.

I caught the faint gleam of censure in his grey eyes. "This allows me to operate from a position of omniscience. In a few short years, I have made myself indispensible. I have the ear of Prime Minister. I am the greatest unofficial adviser to the government that the country has never heard of; nay, at times I _am_ the government."

I was tempted to suggest that he was overrating his importance, but there was that about his manner that defied any facetious remark I was about to make.

"At first, it was vaguely amusing," he went on. "Now I find it tiresome to be at the beck and call of every perplexed servant of the state and minister of government. I had hopes that in time this role we would share and the burden would be lifted from my shoulders. I see now that is never going to happen. You are ungovernable, Sherlock, and better suited to follow your own inclination."

His disappointment was genuine, as was my bewilderment at this revelation, not least because he seemed to be giving his approval to my chosen profession, something I thought never to hear from his lips.

"If you can bear it no longer, Mycroft, why you do remain here?"

"Because the alternative is worse. Where else might I find a position that allows me to indulge my intellect to such an extent? I must have diversions, Sherlock, and I dare say that this is as noble a calling as any." He raised his gaze to mine. "You see, brother, I do understand, more than you realise. I have no wish to clip your wings, but I do question whether your chosen profession is enough to satisfy you."

"I thought I embarrassed you, Mycroft," I said harshly. "You were explicit in your disapproval the last time we met, even to the point of disowning me as your brother."

"That was an error on my part. I imagined that the threat of destitution would work where other arguments had failed."

"It had the opposite effect. It hardened my resolve."

"Yes, I feared that was the case. Under normal circumstances, I should not have interfered. I will admit that I was torn between our ties of kinship and the greater good. I could not in all good conscience allow you to walk blindly into the lions' den. Nor could I simply tell you all I knew and risk greater harm by whatever precipitate course of action you might take in order to discover the identity of the criminal mastermind behind their schemes."

"You do not know who he is? Stanhope referred to him as the 'Professor'."

"Then you know as much as I." Mycroft shook his head. "A pity he eluded us. London would be a far safer place this day had he been apprehended. So rarely does he allow his presence to be detected, except when his minions err, as at the Tankerville. Harding's death presented us with the best opportunity we have had thus far. Still, one must not lose heart," said he, brightening. "I dare say there shall be other times, and at least you have emerged from the encounter relatively unscathed. That is some consolation."

With Mycroft in good temper, I decided that now was the time to state my other grievance. I cleared my throat, feeling a nagging sense of embarrassment for what I was about to ask.

"I will not be held to ransom again over the question of my allowance and my entitlement to our father's estate," I said. "I request that you grant me equal status as administrator."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That I cannot give you."

"Cannot? Or will not?"

"The former, Sherlock. It does not lie within my power to give you what you ask. You cannot be an administrator for the simple reason that there is no estate to administer."

I stared at him. "Our father left—"

"A mountain of bills," he finished for me. "After the death of our mother, he largely neglected his affairs. By the time his debts were paid, there was little enough to provide a decent living for one son, let alone two. Since I had a position, I decided to relinquish my claim and left what little there was to you. However, you have a habit of living beyond your means. The return on the investment was not enough to meet your needs, and so five years ago, the capital was finally exhausted. I faced a choice: either to tell you or to supplement your income. My preference was for the former, but old Mr Young persuaded me otherwise."

"What does our solicitor have to do with anything?"

"You owe him a great deal, my dear boy, so try to be civil. Young Mr Young was all for honesty, but old Mr Young said that young men should be allowed the time and opportunity to make mistakes and find their own level. He said that a fragile child as you had been needed it more than most. All things being equal, I saw the wisdom of his advice. Whatever money you have received since then has been from my own pocket."

I did not know how to reply to this, but that, I gathered, was Mycroft's intention. He had always taken a certain delight in seeing me confounded and now I was utterly lost for words. Where I had expected to read triumph in his expression, however, I saw only weary resignation.

"Mycroft, you should have told me. This cannot continue."

He made a dismissive gesture. "You are my brother, and the only one I am ever liable to have now that our parents are dead. As to the money, it matters little to me. Old Mr Young said to look upon you as one might a spinster sister – and to act accordingly."

"Sister?" I said indignantly. "I am quite capable of fending of myself!"

His eyebrows rose quizzically. "Were you paid for your last case? You mentioned a sum of fifty pounds."

"Which I received, and a little more. Except…" I hesitated to tell him. "I gave it away."

Mycroft tutted. "In which case you should not be so hasty in scorning the little I can afford to give you. As it is, I have been obliged to settle your debts. You may rest assured that your rent is paid in full for another month, for which I expect a small service in return."

Before I could press him for details, I was aware of the approach of another. Elderly, grizzled of hair and whiskers and wearing the careworn appearance of man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the newcomer presented a stately if not impressive figure. To anyone familiar with the daily press, his identity was never in question.

"So," said he to Mycroft, "is this the young man who caused you so much trouble over the Tankerville business?"

"Yes, Prime Minister. This is my younger brother, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

The faded blue of his eyes, once said to be piercing, seemed to me to have lost none of their fire as they took in my measure. Beneath the hardened mantle of authority, I glimpsed a kindlier soul and a yearning for a life away from the pressures of high office.

"Well, I cannot say I see the resemblance," said he. "But there, I was as unlike my own brother as it was possible to be. One may _too_ similar after all." The smile he offered did little to dispel the sense of sorrow I read in his greying features. "Now, Mr Holmes, your brother tells me that you have certain interests."

"As any man may have, Prime Minister."

He chuckled. "I am a busy man, Mr Holmes, so let us get to business. What do you know of a chiromancer by the name of Ricoletti?"

I was forced to admit my ignorance on the subject.

"My brother disdains the questionable pleasures of society," Mycroft explained.

"Quite right too," said the Prime Minister. "Regrettably, for me it is for me a necessary evil, one for which I shall not grieve too greatly when the weight of my years renders me unable to fulfil my obligations. One is forced to associate with the most atrocious people." The vehemence with which he spoke was tempered by his long sigh. "This Ricoletti character is currently the talk of fashionable circles. In my view he is a charlatan, but he has charmed his way into the best houses."

"On the grounds of his ability as a reader of palms?"

"He calls himself a divinator of the future and has acquired such a reputation that none dare marry without his prior approval."

I was struggling to contain my mirth at what seemed to me an absurd tale. I looked to Mycroft for support, but he gave a warning shake of his head and I kept my silence.

"So believed my dear wife's favourite nephew, the Honourable Arthur Bassett. He was a sensitive soul, the best of men, and engaged to wed. Last week, on the basis of this blackguard's prediction, he took a gun to his head and ended his life."

This was indeed sobering news. "My condolences, sir. What had Signor Ricoletti predicted?"

"That young Bassett would one day betray his country. The note he left said he could not live with the shame and the knowledge that such treason – so heinous to his gentle soul! – lay in his future. Sheer nonsense, of course, but a fearful thing for any man to hear." The steel returned to his eyes. "Mr Holmes, this man killed him as surely as if he had fired the bullet himself. I would not have him destroy another young life."

"You wish me to expose him for the fraud he is?" I glanced uncertainly at my brother. "But surely there are other means by which to negate his influence. I seem to recall that the 1842 Rogues and Vagabonds Act makes provision for such an offence, under which a person may be prosecuted for 'pretending or professing to tell fortunes, by using any subtle craft, means or device'."

The Prime Minister nodded approvingly. "You know your law, Mr Holmes. Yes, that is one course we have considered. However, should he come to court, the case would become a _cause célèbre_. He would have any number of witness, and of good birth, to testify to his powers. No, Mr Holmes, this requires a subtler touch, at which your brother assures me you excel." He held out his hand. "May God go with you, sir. The future happiness of many young people rests in your hands."

With such an exhortation ringing in my ears, the venerable gentleman took his leave and returned to the gathering at the furthermost end of the hall. When he was out of earshot, I turned to my brother.

"Mycroft, I am correct in thinking there is more to this tale? If this fellow is such an obvious fraud, why has the matter not been referred to the police?"

"Because it is _not_ obvious, Sherlock. Whether by happy coincidence or more insidious means, Ricoletti has proved himself startlingly accurate in his predictions. He told Lady Anstead that she would never wed young Sir George Graham, and he was right."

"What happened?"

"She died two days before the wedding. A discreet post-mortem was conducted and her heart was found to be much diseased, not unsurprising for a woman of eighty-two. No foul play was found – nor would it have been suspected but for Ricoletti's prediction."

"The Graham family naturally would have been suspects. So elderly a woman marrying a much younger man—"

"Not at all. There were a few eyebrows raised, but the family very much approved of the match. Her wealth was considerable, after all. When one is that rich, eccentricity is obligatory."

"Then Ricoletti made nothing more than a fortuitous guess. Or do you pretend to lend credence to his claims of prophesy?"

"You may scoff, Sherlock, but many people were convinced of his powers on the basis of this demonstration. Only the day before, Lady Anstead had been in the best of spirits. Her death was not anticipated. The question is, how did Ricoletti know?" Mycroft shook his head. "We live in credible times. Young Bassett believed in him, poor devil."

"The circumstances of his death did not affect Ricoletti's standing?"

"It was reported as misadventure. Given the current political climate, it was considered safer that the details of the incident were not divulged to the press. For the breath of scandal to touch a member of the Prime Minister's family at this time would be detrimental to the good governing of this country."

"This is why you want me to do your dirty work." I caught myself sighing to relieve my vexation. I had hoped to set some time aside for my neglected studies of late, and Mycroft had effectively put an end to that. However, I will not deny that I was intrigued, perhaps too much for own good. "There is of course one problem: how am I to gain access to the man? I do not have an _entrée_ into the type of circles he frequents."

Mycroft grinned, broadly enough to leave me feeling unsettled about his plans. "Yes, you do. That has all been arranged."

"Who have you enlisted for this role?"

"Cousin Miles."

There are some members of our extended family about whom the least is said, the better. Cousin Miles was one such person. Three months older than Mycroft, the eldest child of our grandfather's second son, on his father's death he inherited a not inconsiderable fortune and gave himself up to as decadent a lifestyle as he could find. He appeared to do little else than wander from one party to another, scandalising society with his outspoken opinions about everything and everyone, and indulging in as much gossip as possible.

As vacuous an individual as one may ever have the misfortune to encounter, I would have rather returned to the Tankerville to polish the gymnasium floor for a week than to spend any time in Miles' company.

"Is there a problem?" Mycroft inquired innocently, as if he was ignorant of my feeling on the subject of our objectionable cousin.

"Yes, because you know full well what I think of him," I retorted. "Miles is a vain, pompous, arrogant, conceited—"

"Then you should get along with him very well. I told him to expect you on Friday." He smiled sympathetically, a look which sat ill on my brother's features at the best of times, worse now when he was trying to persuade me to his cause. "Come now," said he. "It is only for a few days, after all. And you are looking decidedly peaky, Sherlock. What you need is rest and recuperation. Yes, a few days in comfortable surroundings with a mystery to solve will do you the world of good. Now, what do you say to that?"

**The End**

* * *

_Well, dear friends, readers and reviewers, we've reached the end of the Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard, but if that ending doesn't look like the set-up for a sequel, then I don't know what is. Of course he says yes – who would give up the chance to meet Signor Ricoletti and vain, pompous, arrogant, conceited Miles Holmes (for those who read The Addleton Tragedy, yes, he is the elder brother of Peregrine)?_

_Young Mr Sherlock Holmes will soon return in…_

_**The Abominable Adventure of the Charming Chiromancer!**_

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade et al are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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